


The Theory of Multiplicity

by GoddessofBirth, therudestflower



Series: Factoring Out Binomials [11]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Commuter!AU Stisaac, Crossover, Drug Use, F/M, Gen, I mean it's FoB you know it goes alternate canon during season 2, Interdimensional Travel, M/M, Multi, Multiple Realities, Non-canon pairings, Not Canon Compliant, because pot, canon pairings - Freeform, some canon elements
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-01
Updated: 2019-05-26
Packaged: 2019-07-05 04:53:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 31
Words: 90,155
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15856611
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GoddessofBirth/pseuds/GoddessofBirth, https://archiveofourown.org/users/therudestflower/pseuds/therudestflower
Summary: Opening the apartment door to find hallucinated--and bloodied--versions of himself and Isaac was not how Stiles wanted to end their date. He just wanted to squeeze in some time with his husband before their co-parent went to base, like usual.Usually the dates didn’t end in Stiles having a complex visual and auditory hallucination.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I am super excited to share this latest, multi-chapter installment of "Factoring Out Binomials" that continues the new direction of Stiles and Isaac's lives that began in Rational Numbers, and I'm out of this world happy to have TheRudestFlower as co-writer, co-creater, and co-conspirator. We're currently at 65,000 words and you can expect a chapter a week posting schedule.
> 
> We hope you enjoy this journey as much as we have!

They had gone seven years in Vermont without seeing a peep of the supernatural. Isaac, despite being a supernatural, has almost been lulled into believing it didn’t exist outside of Beacon County. The monsters in his own mind have been far more threatening and dangerous than the hypothetical ones that he logically knows must crisscross the country.

 

So, seven years. Nothing. Just occasional stories from Scott and Dad and veiled commentary from the Argents about the horror that continues to be Beacon Hills. And then they move to Saluda. And six months in and they’ve narrowly escaped being eaten by a rougarou, impaled by an Oni, and used as a sacrifice by a teenage coven of witches. Not what they had expected when settling in a tiny rural town in the foothills of the Appalachian.

 

(When he frantically mentions something to this effect on the panicked phone call he makes to Chris the first time they stumble upon a half eaten body with a human _tooth_ in the wound, Chris answers evenly, “You moved into a small town in the foothills of the _Appalachians _, Isaac,” as if that answers everything. And then the Argents had shown up with a truckload of weaponry and that had been that. The Argents left but the truckload remains, and the both of them are still trying to catch up to the fact that they have somehow picked up second jobs as amateur hunters.)__

 

“Isaac!” He whips his head up from where he’s holding the door closed on an honest to heaven _demigod_ , to see Stiles come hurtling through the window, triumphantly holding the Phurba that will send this bastard straight back to the reality he/she/it(they?) crawled out of. He flings himself back from the door and it slams open.

 

White clouds puff out around Mechanic Jim, who is wearing coveralls and a long, scraggly beard and has grease under his fingernails from his day job as a mechanic at Bob’s Auto Repair. Honestly if it weren’t for the fact he’d been collecting random babies for things Isaac didn’t want to consider, Isaac would have argued against this exorcism. Jim was a hell of a mechanic.

 

Stiles draws back his arm to launch the dagger. The demigod isn’t even trying to get away or dodge. Instead he holds up a cautioning finger. “Sure you wanna go there, boys? Splittin’ seven realities ain’t somethin’ you do without a lotta porch thinkin’, a couple drinks, an’ a whole passel of protection.”

 

Stiles doesn’t stop to monologue, because they aren’t stupid. He lets the dagger fly and it finds its mark in Mechanic Jim’s chest. There’s a rumble, and a hiss, and Isaac flings himself across the room to shield Stiles from whatever is happening. He barely gets his arms around him when the whole world turns sideways and then for almost five seconds there’s nothing at all. No light. No air. No sound. No...no _Isaac_.

 

He comes back into himself, body still curled around Stiles. He cautiously lets go and he and Stiles stare at each other for a long minute, eyes wide.

 

“Well that was something,” Stiles finally says.

 

“You are such a badass.” Isaac grins and then groans. “I have to be at work in like two hours.”

 

“Daddy!”

 

He barely hears the word before twenty pounds crash into his legs and it is then he realizes something is terribly, terribly wrong. They’re not in a cabin. They’re in an apartment. They aren’t alone. There’s a...a... _child_ currently hugging his leg.

 

“Papa,” she says this time, looking at Stiles and then wrinkling her nose. “You look funny.” Then she shrugs. “Pick me up,” she demands.

 

Stiles looks exactly as confused as Isaac feels. “What the fuck?” He mouths silently to Isaac.

 

“You’re late,” A voice states from the left. They whip their heads around to see a woman standing in a bedroom door frame. She’s probably their age, with dark brown hair and she’s wearing some kind of military uniform. “Beah almost ate her truck because she’s hungry and you’re late.” Then she narrows her eyes. “What did you do to your hair? What are you wearing? Why do you have blood on your shirt?”

 

“Um..er...We…” Isaac can’t even begin to grasp what they should be doing now.

 

“Beah.” The woman holds out her hand. “Come here.”

 

“No!” The terrifying bundle tugs on Stiles again. “I want Papa to pick me up and take me to the table!”

 

“Beah.” The woman says again. Then she pulls out her cell phone. “I’m calling Chris.”

 

 _Finally!_ Isaac gratefully gasps out, “Oh thank God. You know Chris?”

 

“Did you wreck your car? Is that what happened? Head wounds are very serious. I know this because you rambled on about it for two hours the time Beah fell out of her crib.” She directs this to Stiles.

 

Then the door on the other side of the room opens and Isaac decides his fragile brain has finally decided to fracture because _Stiles_ walks through. And then _Isaac_ is on his heels. Except obviously not because Isaac is exactly where he is, and Stiles is still holding on to one side of his t-shirt, his fingers curling tighter and tighter before he literally shoves Isaac behind him like he can protect him from whatever hallucination Isaac’s brain has decided to throw out.

 

The Stiles at the door freezes and looks between them and the woman and the tiny terrifying child and the Isaac at the door and then breathes quietly. “Isaac, I might need you to call my doctor.”

 

****************************

 

Opening Malia’s apartment door to find hallucinated--and bloodied--versions of himself and Isaac was not how Stiles wanted to end their date. He just wanted to squeeze in some time with his husband before their co-parent went to base, like usual.

 

Usually the dates didn’t end in Stiles having a complex visual and auditory hallucination.

 

It’s a nice tradition. Something they do to kind of take some time to themselves before it’s just them and a preschooler who can’t speak below a yell--who they love very much--for a couple weeks. This time they went to a bookstore that Isaac loves on the other side of Austin and window shopped, making a list for the next time they went to the library. They may support the publishing industry but they did so from afar because they continued to be broke AF.

 

His first thought is that he had to get these weird proxies away from his daughter, but his second and reassuring thought is that he was hallucinating. His doctors had warned him that just because he’d only ever had auditory hallucinations didn’t mean that he wouldn’t have visual ones, and he was prepared for this day. So his most recent psychotic episode wasn’t squashed. It was fine.

 

And he is seeing weird versions of himself and Isaac. Like, really weird versions. They aren’t dressed like them--Stiles takes quick inventory of the patterned button up shirt and shorts real him was wearing, and real Isaac’s white t-shirt and jeans and compares it to whatever these weirdos are wearing and found that his hallucination had dreamed up clothes and haircuts that they’d never had. Did he want them to dress this way? Did he want Isaac’s hair to look like that?

 

What is his brain doing?

 

The proxies are staring at him like he’s some kind of monster, but that’s just typical hallucination fare.

 

He expects Isaac to question him--what is he hearing, what does he believe, how does he know it’s not true? But Isaac isn’t in saving mode, he’s in panic mode and when Stiles looks over he can practically smell the gears in Isaac’s head grinding as he _stares at the proxies_ and mutters “Holy shit, holy shit, holy shit.”

 

“Beah!” Malia barks, in her military voice. “Come here right now.”

 

Beah, who Stiles now realizes was _looking_ at his hallucination, looks at Malia, which brings her gaze to Isaac and Stiles standing in the doorway. She looks at them with confused eyes then looks back at the proxies - looks right at them - and her face crumbles. She starts sobbing and runs to Malia.

 

Stiles doesn’t know what to do.

 

“Can you see them too?” he whispers to Isaac.

 

“Yeah, the you and me in Malia’s living room?” Isaac asks, not sounding nearly as calm as Stiles is trying to be. “I can see them.”

 

“Okay cool,” Stiles says.

 

The proxy Stiles moves into a fighting stance that Stiles is confident he has never stood in. Proxy Isaac does the same. “We can see you too you know,” the proxy Stiles says, “And we can hear you.”

 

“Malia,” Stiles says, trying the fuck to keep calm. He misses when they were hallucinations, “Get Beah and--”

 

Malia has already picked Beah up and grabbed her overnight bag, “I’m calling Chris right now,” she says and then she disappears into her bedroom--which has a fire escape if things go south--and Stiles hears the door lock behind them. Malia may be the only one with military training, but Beah is the first priority and Stiles and Isaac can totally be killed by these proxies if it means that Beah is safe.

 

“How do you know Chris Argent?” Proxy Stiles demands.

 

Stiles laughs hysterically. Why is this weird version of him acting like he shouldn’t know his father-in-law? “Listen, I don’t know what kind of joke this it, but you have broken into someone’s apartment and stolen our identities and that’s not cool! So get your weirdo asses out of here and go! Just get up and fucking go and we will consider not calling the cops on you, just because we’re in a good mood, okay? Just,” he grabs Isaac by the shoulder of his shirt--because he’s staring at them and panicking--and gently pulls him out of the doorway, “leave and we can forget that you weirdos ever were here.”

 

Proxy Isaac leans forward and whispers in Proxy Stiles’ ear, “That’s definitely not you.”

 


	2. Chapter 2

No shit it isn’t him. First off, Stiles would _never_ wear that shirt. Second, Other-Stiles is opening the door and acting like he’s just going to let them _walk out_. Third...well there is no third.  It just isn’t him. His Chinese ring daggers sit reassuringly in their sheaths at the small of his back but he’s not showing all his cards just yet.

 

“It has to be the Phurba,” he whispers, hopefully low enough that only his Isaac’s werewolfy hearing can pick it up and Other-Isaac’s werewolfy hearing cannot.  It’s possible they should have listened a little closer to Mechanic Jim’s ominous warnings.

 

“This is bad, Stiles.  Bad.” There’s a note in Isaac’s voice that he hasn’t heard in years and he reaches back his hand and buries it in Isaac’s hair right as Isaac presses his face into his neck. Isaac inhales deeply, breathing in Stiles’ scent and Stiles tugs gently on his curls. He gets close to distracted when Isaac’s tongue discreetly traces the line of his vertebrae.

 

“Hey. _Hey._ I’m talking to you! You need to get out!”

 

His attention snaps back to Other-Stiles and a low, near inaudible growl rumbles out of Isaac. His double is stupid if he doesn’t think Isaac won’t flip on a dime.  Stiles shifts minutely, enough to rub his cheek against Isaac’s, pressing his scent into him. “We should try talking first, don’t you think?”

 

Other-Isaac stares open mouthed and wide eyed and Other-Stiles makes a face before spitting out, “Leave!  Get a room! Jesus!”

 

Stiles flips him off right as the bedroom door opens and the woman comes back out.  Malia? Was that what they said? The name tickles around on the edge of his brain but he knows for damn sure he doesn’t recognize her.  She’s holding out a cell phone and the kid isn’t with her and she firmly closes the door behind her. There’s a lump under her jacket and Stiles is 99% sure she’s got some kind of weapon.  It’s the first thing about this whole scenario that makes sense.

 

“Chris is on the phone. He had me put him on speaker.”

 

****************************

 

Isaac eyes the bloodied versions of them and steps closer to Malia. Chris being introduced into the situation, even on a speaker phone from a thousand miles away, unfreezes his brain a little. Because Isaac is freaking out. There’s a Stiles who doesn’t look like Stiles--whose face doesn’t even do the same things his Stiles’ does. And there’s a him who Isaac can feel from across the room is freaking out and it looks two turns off of the way he feels when he freaks out. But when he freaks out he doesn’t put his face in Stiles’s neck--not in front of strangers anyway.

 

Are they strangers? Are they them? Could this possibly be them somehow? Did he drop acid and forget about it?

 

Chris would know. Chris can fix anything.

 

He grabs the phone from Malia. He registers that Malia has her gun now--something that they hate that she has until this very fucking moment. If he wasn’t afraid of guns he’d want to take it from her. But she keeps it under her jacket as she hands him the phone, making serious eye contact with him.

 

“He can handle this,” she says.

 

“Chris?” he says into the phone, “Did Malia tell you what happened?”

 

“ _Isaac_?” When Chris says it the other Isaac lifts his head out of other Stiles’ neck just a fraction of an inch, but doesn’t look over.

 

Isaac wonders if his Austin therapist would be proud of him because underneath all the fucking panic that this was happening he felt sympathy for the other version of him. Talk about getting past all that self-hatred.

 

“Yeah it’s me.”

 

“ _What color is the toothbrush you have at my apartment?_ ” Chris asks.

 

Isaac blurts out, “Blue,” because what the fuck is Chris asking that for right now. But Chris can fix this so he’s going to do whatever Chris says.

 

Stiles is still by the door trying to convince the other thems to get the fuck out, but they aren’t moving from where they are standing by the couch. The other Isaac’s face is still in Stiles’ shoulder and the other Stiles is glaring at them--like they’re the ones who are intruding.

 

They’re different from him and Stiles. They look like them, but the way they are standing, the way they are dressed--the way they _smell_ it’s like there are strangers with their faces. It’s scary.

 

“Leave!” Stiles yells.

 

“ _Stiles_ !” Chris says loudly, “ _Do not let them leave._ ” Stiles hears that and reels to close the front door and then plant himself in front of it.

 

****************************

 

Even in this fucked up situation, hearing Chris’ voice is a relief.  Chris will be able to handle this. He and Victoria will help them figure this out and Isaac will stop feeling like he felt almost every single day for the first two years after Derek turned him.  He sucks in another deep breath of Stiles’ scent and presses into Stiles’ grip in his hair.

 

 _“Isaac, are you okay_?” Chris’ voice asks.

 

“No,” he answers, at the same time fake him also says “I think so?”

 

The fake Stiles by the door gives him an ugly look before saying “Shut up.  He’s not talking to you. Chris, that was one of them.”

 

Isaac and Stiles both ignore him; Isaac slips a hand between their bodies and under Stiles’ shirt to loosen the ring daggers as Stiles speaks.

 

“Mr. Argent, it’s Stiles.  We were hunting a weird ass demigod who was our _mechanic -_ Jesus Christ can you believe that? - anyway I got a phurba from that professor I was telling you about?  That has the office next to mine?”

 

Isaac sees fake Stiles’ eyebrows raise at the word professor while fake Isaac and Malia’s eyes are getting wider and wider with every world out of Stiles’ mouth.  Maybe they hadn’t gotten to demigods yet?

 

“Anyway, we used it to send him back but I think the whole piercing the veil of reality thing wasn’t metaphorical.  And these fuc— messed up versions of ourselves appeared. So what do we do next?”

 

“We didn’t appear,” Malia says bluntly. “Chris, we didn’t appear.  They appeared. In my living room. They were with _Beah_.”

 

In the background of the phone call Isaac hears a sucked in breath and can barely pick out the words _Christopher, I’m packing a carry on_.

 

Stiles cocks his head.  “We’re in North Carolina, right?”

 

Chris is the one who answers.  “ _You’re in Austin. I’d like Isaac and Stiles to speak now, please.”_

 

Stiles rolls on, taking charge.  “Okay, okay sure. So we’ve crossed over.  That’s fine. We need to get back, okay? Do you have anything in the bestiary about this?  Can we get a line on another dagger? I gotta tell you, this isn’t actually a good place for Isaac right—“

 

Fake Stiles interrupts, the calm voice he’d been using completely disappearing.  “What the fuck are you talking about? What. The. Fuck. Chris, I think we need to call the cops, I really think we need—

 

“Jesus,” Stiles interrupts, “I am personally insulted with how useless you are. What the hell is wrong with you?  Honestly, I cannot wrap my head around that much stupidity wearing my face. What are cops gonna do? You really wanna get civilians involved in this?  What we need is to sit down and figure this out. If we have to, we can get Jody and Dad to call her daughters and maybe they can get that Cas guy to—“

 

“Stiles!” That’s fake Isaac, who has been subtly freaking out since he walked in and Isaac is growing more confused by the second that fake Stiles is doing absolutely nothing to _fix it_.

 

“Stiles,” Fake Isaac says again, then points straight at Isaac.  “Something’s happening to his eyes.”

****************************

 

Stiles has only just decided that he’s definitely not hallucinating and he definitely doesn’t need to call his psychiatrist. He is busy reflecting on all the insane things that Proxy Stiles is saying--and the fact that he is a giant dick--when Isaac gets his attention.

 

And when he does, he is sure he is hallucinating again.

 

Proxy Isaac is breathing heavily and his eyes are glowing. Glowing _yellow._ He may not be making up that there are two proxy versions of themselves in Malia’s apartment while Beah is one room over, but he is making this up.

 

Except

 

“I see it too,” Isaac says, his voice panicked, “Stiles it’s real. His eyes are yellow.”

 

Proxy Stiles looks at them like they’re idiots. He reaches up and stokes the back of Proxy Isaac’s neck, pulling his forehead against the side of his head. “Of course they’re _yellow,_ you’re lucky he’s not wolfing out at this rate. You’re telling me _his_ ” he inclines his head towards Isaac who is gripping Malia’s phone like he was trying to disappear inside of it, “don’t turn yellow?”

 

What the fuck. What the fuck. How are they acting like this is normal and not the scariest non-hallucination thing that has ever happened in his life. Trying to keep it under control, Stiles sputters and says, “No his eyes do not turn _yellow._ They turn _red_ from time to time but that’s more of a recreational thing--”

 

Somehow that makes things worse. The Proxy Isaac turns to them now and not only are his eyes yellow there are _fangs_ and he’s looking at Isaac. Stiles steps towards Isaac, towards the bedroom door, towards blocking them from everyone he loves and Malia steps in front of Isaac, glaring down Proxy Isaac fiercely. She reaches up for her jacket at the same moment that Proxy Stiles reaches behind his back and oh shit oh shit they are going to die he is sixteen again and they are going to die they are going to die.

 

“ _Stop_ !” Chris commands. “ _Stop right now!_ ” Everyone freezes. Even the proxies. “ _Tell me what is happening right now_.”

 

The proxies freeze and even though he can still see Proxy Isaac’s eyes _glowing,_ Stiles has the presence of mind to clear his throat and say, “Chris, the good news is my episode is still over. The bad news is we’re all going to die.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is brief pot use in this chapter!

Everyone is frozen, staring at the Nokia phone still outstretched in Isaac’s hand, emitting Chris’s voice. The proxies look at each other and Stiles, Malia and Isaac look at each other and finally Malia says, “Chris, they have weapons.”

 

“ _ She  _ has a weapon,” Proxy Stiles snaps.

 

“That’s not even--that’s not even the biggest thing that is happening right now!” Stiles says, “Their whatever version of Isaac has  _ fangs  _ and  _ yellow eyes  _ and is  _ growling at us  _ as we speak. We’re going to die.”

 

Chris is silent for just a moment. Then. 

 

“You are not going to die. The men from North Carolina. Listen to me. This will not proceed with anyone getting hurt. I am going to fix this. The men and woman in front of you are not threats to you, they will not harm you if you don’t harm them. The woman in front of you is Staff Sergeant Malia Tate of the Air Force. Surrender your weapons to her and we will proceed.” 

 

****************************

 

Stiles laughs, sharp and loud and, if Isaac’s honest, the slightest bit unhinged.  But seriously,  _ fuck that. _

 

“Mr. Argent, no offense but no.  No to the hell to the no. I don’t give a fu—“ He pauses and plunges on as if deciding  _ you know what? The situation calls for it _ .  “-ck if she’s the grand admiral of the resistance. I’m not giving her shit. You can’t— You’re not Argent,” he concludes, regardless of the fact the voice clearly  _ is _ Chris.  “You’d know better than to ask me to do something that stupid.“ Know better than to think Stiles would take the remotest chance of leaving himself unable to defend Isaac.

 

Isaac cuts him off.  “Wait.” He’s close to spiraling out of control because Fake Stiles has said that Fake Isaac has _red_ _eyes_ and all he can think is that in whatever version of them this is that he’s become an alpha which means Stiles is in danger, because Isaac would never be a Scott.  He’d be a Derek. Stiles could be hurt and he will _kill them all_ before he lets—

 

There’s yelling all around him, from Malia and Fake Stiles and his Stiles, but Fake Isaac—

 

Fake Isaac looks scared, which Isaac feels is fair because he’s scared, too.  But he also looks confused. And Fake Stiles is yelling a lot but he isn’t doing any of the stuff he should actually be doing to prepare for a fight.  The only one of the three of them that he thinks actually knows what to do is Malia. Who he has no problem taking care of if necessary, but—

 

“Wait,” he says again. Stiles raises an eyebrow and in the second of silence he realizes the background noise coming from the phone is the sound of a car engine and the road racing by.  Isaac inhales deeply, drawing Stiles’ scent deep into his bones, and closes his eyes. When he reopens them, the yellow is gone and he’s human again. 

 

He walks over to Fake Isaac.

 

“Hey, hey, get the fuck back—“ Fake Stiles jumps between them so Isaac obligingly stops but addresses Fake Isaac over his shoulder.

 

“Are you a werewolf?”

 

“Are you fucking—“. Fake Stiles is trying to answer for him and that isn’t helping Isaac  _ at all _ .

 

“Shut up! He’s not talking to you!” Isaac gives Stiles a brief, grateful smile, even as Fake Stiles opens his mouth to interrupt  _ again _ .

 

Chris’ voice comes again, very, very, very calm. Isaac knows Chris well enough now to have seen Chris  _ not _ calm, which is the scariest thing Isaac has experienced after Derek Hales and Hospitalized Stileses, but whoever this Chris Argent is, he still trusts him more than these other versions of themselves.

 

“Stiles, let them talk.”

 

Fake Stiles snaps his mouth shut but continues to glare.

 

“Thank you, Mr. Argent,” Isaac says before returning to his initial question.

 

“Are you a werewolf?”

 

Fake him opens and closes his mouth a few times, then finally just says, “No.”

 

“Werecoyote?”

 

“ _ No! _ ”

 

“Werejaguar?”

 

“What?”

 

“Kanima?”

 

“I don’t even know what that is!”

 

“When did you move from Beacon Hills?”

 

Fake him shakes his head.  “I’ve never lived in Beacon Hills!  Stiles is from Beacon Hills!”

 

And through it all, Fake Isaac’s heart rate stays the same, steady, racing beat of panic, but not lies.

 

Isaac steps back to Stiles’ side, keeping an eye on Malia.  She’s the only real threat now.

 

“He’s telling the truth. Stiles—,” he swallows because this is almost as distressing as when he thought he was an alpha or when he thought he’d lost Stiles that one terrible, horrible night in Beacon Hills, “—I don’t think they know. I don’t think they know anything at all.”

 

Then, to the phone, “Mr. Argent, why don’t they know about what you—“

 

Chris’ calm, calm voice cuts him off.  “We’re on our way. We’ve just gotten to the airport and are purchasing tickets.  We will be there in just a few hours. You do not need to give your weapons to Malia, but I need you to promise to put them away.  Malia, I need you to move your hand off your gun as well. You need to de-escalate right now, do you understand? We are all on our way.  I need to hear your verbal confirmation. Can you all do that?”

 

Malia looks stubborn, but she drops her hand to her side at the same time Stiles takes his hand from the back of his shirt.

 

“I don’t think this is smart, Chris,” Malia says.

 

“Fuck you,” Stiles responds.

 

“They’ve both done it,” Fake Isaac volunteers helpfully.

 

“Okay, Good.” There’s muffled voices in the background and Chris answers to someone off phone. “No, I don’t have anything to check,” before returning to the conversation.  “I would like you all to stay where you are. We will solve this, but I need everyone to remain at the apartment. Can you all do that?”

 

The apartment is small. Too small. Almost a trap. How will they get out if something happens? For a second he’s ten years in the past, stuck in a hotel room, feeling Derek getting closer and closer and knowing they are going to  _ die _ .  He hears a low growl, realizes it’s him and looks frantically for Stiles.

 

Then Stiles is there, pressed against his back with his palm resting on his breastbone and Isaac breathes again.

 

“We can do that,” he says to the Chris on the phone.

 

There’s a crinkle of paper and he frowns at his fake self.  “Is...is that a joint?”

 

****************************

 

Isaac can’t help but laugh a little. This other version of himself has just asked him if he’s any number of mythical creatures, but this has to be the wildest thing he could ask. Because any version of himself that doesn’t instantly know what a joint is? Ask for a hit? Is for sure not him.

 

He puts the joint in his mouth and lights the end, even as Stiles sighs and says, “Really?”

 

He breathes in and the smoke tastes familiar and sweet and it’s exactly what he needs right now. He holds it in for a minute then exhales, right onto Malia’s back who turns around and glares at him. 

 

“What?” he asks innocently, “I’m stressed. We’re not supposed to have the gun out around Beah either,” he says. Everyone knows about the gun now, there’s no point in being careful. “It’s a weird day.” 

 

“Is Isaac smoking right now?” Chris asks on the phone, sounding weary. 

 

“I’m  _ stressed,”  _ Isaac repeats. 

 

“He shouldn’t be doing that right?” Malia says. 

 

Chris sighs. “Malia, you are in charge, understand? I have to go through security now, and Jo--I can’t stay on the line much longer. You have to make some decisions, de-escalate as smoothly as you can.”

 

“Five hits,” Malia finally decides, “then you put it out in the sink.”

 

“Sure,” Isaac lies.

 

Just having a joint in his hand is making him feel better

 

Other Stiles is gaping at him, like he’s a twelve year old who has never seen a joint before. Other him is still standing over Stiles and Malia’s shoulder, and he’s looking curiously at the joint in Isaac’s hand. Without the yellow eyes or  _ fangs,  _ his face is uncomfortably familiar and Isaac has a hard time looking at him. 

 

That doesn’t mean he can’t be polite. He reaches over Malia and Stiles’ shoulders offering the joint. This other version of him is terrified, and if he’s really him he probably doesn’t know what to do about it except be scared. He feels bad for this version of him that doesn’t smoke enough to immediately know what a joint is because he is  _ missing out  _ on something that no amount of therapy workbooks or bad weekend experiments with Xanax can offer. 

 

The other Isaac looks at the joint then looks at him, then looks behind his shoulder at the other Stiles before reaching out and taking the joint from him. The moment he does his Stiles yells “What the fuck?” and the other Stiles says, “Isaac, wait.” 

 

The other Isaac looks back at Stiles, then looks at him. “Is this poisoned, or laced with anything or will otherwise do anything to me except get me high?” 

 

“No,” Isaac says in the same disbelieving tone of voice he probably used when he was asked if he was a  _ werejaguar.  _

 

“He’s not lying,” the other Isaac says, and slowly, hesitantly takes a hit. He coughs hard almost immediately. 

 

Oh shit this poor guy has no idea what he’s doing. And he seems to be confident enough in his ability to tell if someone is lying to take drugs from the alternate reality version of him. He wonders if this Isaac is the same as him, if he can tell from the twitch of someone’s eye, from the set of their shoulders, if they’re lying or if they’re about to go off. 

 

He wonders if this Isaac has had the same alarm bells going off in his head since the moment they walked into the apartment. Probably not because Isaac doesn’t think there’s anything particularly threatening about him or Stiles--Malia is another story--but these two. These two Isaac knows pose a threat. 

 

Stiles apparently thinks that other Isaac was less threatening than he did at the beginning, because he steps away from standing in front of Isaac and gesture wildly, “Okay, so apparently all versions of you is a stoner? Even the ones with fangs! How has no one explained the fangs yet? Can we please focus?” 

 

“I agree,” the other Stiles says, and the two of them suddenly look at each other, seemingly alarmed to agree. “If we agree that we’re not about to shoot or stab one another, maybe we could try  _ talking?”  _

 

The other Isaac takes another hit and coughs and offers the joint over Malia’s shoulder. Isaac takes another hit, and somehow--kind of--smiles at the other version of him. 

 

He doesn’t smile back. He looks at him, stunned. 

 

Malia looks back at him, and holds her hand out for the phone that was still in his hand. He has to be the first person in the world to be lighting a joint and passing it to himself while on the phone with his father. She takes the phone. “Chris, are you still there?”

 

“I have to go very soon,” he says, “Are all the weapons still holstered?”

 

“Yes,” both Stileses say. They glare at each other. 

 

“Chris, I have this,” Malia says, “I have this. You can go.”

 

“You’re sure?”

 

“I’m sure.” She hangs up and the other versions of them startle a little, but it’s too late. Chris--the only person they listen to--is gone. She turns around and catches Isaac taking a hit. 

 

“That’s five,” she says, “Sink.” 

 

She had a commander who repeatedly told her that the training she received would always be inadequate. The enemy didn’t kowtow to the training curriculum. Anything that could happen would happen, and she had to be prepared by knowing that she would never be prepared. 

 

She is prepared for this. 

 

“Everyone sit down,” she says, “We have enough seats for everyone. North Carolinas, you sit on the couch. Isaac and Stiles, sit on the garage sale chairs.”

 

“I hate the garage sale chairs,” Isaac, who is somehow high already, groans.

 

“Tough,” Malia says. “I’m going to check on my daughter now, and you are going to sit still and not move while I do that.” 

 

Stiles sighs and takes the lead. 0 Stiles is still standing over where he had appeared, just a few feet from the couch. Stiles sits down on the better garage sale chair, and takes a deep breath. 

 

Isaac stubs out the joint in the kitchen sink, then twists the end while Malia and 0 Stiles and 0 Isaac watch him. He sighs too, and goes over to the other garage sale chair and doesn’t sit. 

 

“You two too,” Malia tells the 0s. 

 

“Why are you in charge?” 0 Stiles questions. “Because this isn’t the military. If anything one of us should be taking charge, because we actually know what’s going on.” 

 

“Do you?” Malia demands, “A second ago you thought Isaac was a werewolf, and we established you were wrong. Prior knowledge of a situation does not translate to leadership. Now. Sit down.”

 

They all stare at her for another second, but finally 0 Stiles sits down, closely followed by Isaac. 0 Isaac remained standing. “You’re not going to make him do anything,” 0 Stiles insists. He reaches out for 0 Isaac’s hand and holds it against his face. 

 

Good enough, Malia decides. She strategizes to keep 0 Isaac feeling unthreatened so he didn’t--god--”wolf out”. 0 Stiles was the one with the knives. 

 

“I have to check on our daughter,” she repeats, “If I hear any kind of commotion I will come out immediately.” 

 

She glares at them until she’s sure that they aren’t going to kill each other, then goes back into the bedroom. She should be on the road right now. She’s going to have to come up with something to tell base to explain why she isn’t going to be there anytime soon.

 

She turns around and goes into the bedroom, quickly closing the door behind her. 

 

****************************

 

The joint seems to have helped Isaac. Plus, all of Stiles’ memories of getting high with Isaac  _ also _ involve sexy times, and while that obviously can't happen here the association still exists which means  _ he _ inevitably feels better. So all in all he’s a little pissed this Malia lady made Other-Isaac put it out. Especially because he knows Isaac’s supernatural metabolism will kick any high in a matter of minutes without added doses.

 

“So what's the deal with the kid?” He jerks his head toward the bedroom door while continuing to play with Isaac's hands.  Isaac’s eyes look just a little hazy and he’s giving Stiles a  _ look _ .  

 

“The  _ kid,”  _ his other-self answers, in an inexplicably offended tone, “is our  _ daughter. _ And seriously can you two chill out?  What are you, in heat or something?”

 

“That’s a myth,” Isaac says seriously.  “And I thought Malia said she was hers?”

 

“Yeah, she’s all of ours.” Again, with the defensiveness. "Three parents, all legally hers, three times the fun? Okay?" 

 

Stiles considers it for barely two seconds before shrugging.  Not close to the weirdest thing he’s heard. “Cool.” 

 

Isaac’s hand is suddenly tense in Stiles.

 

“I can’t believe you had a  _ child _ .” He’s looking at other-Isaac and his voice is horrified and judgmental and Stiles knows exactly what he isn't saying. “How could you?” 

 

“Excuse you?” Other-Isaac looks like he wants to be pissed but he’s too high to actually get there. “You know what? Let’s wait for my dad to get here to talk anymore. I have another joint.”

 

In the space of just one word, Isaac loses his shit.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More pot smoking (then that's it for a while) and a lot else happens

His hand grips Stiles’ so tight Stiles hears bones grind. His eyes are yellow and his claws are out and there’s actual full fang.

 

“Whoa whoa whoa, what the hell?” Other-Stiles jumps up and Stiles jumps up too, and everything starts sliding back into chaos.

 

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” Stiles hisses at other-Isaac. “Why would you bring that piece of shit here?” He turns into Isaac, pressing their foreheads together. “It’s okay. We’ll leave.  Let’s leave.”

 

Other-Isaac’s voice intrudes, confused. “What’s your deal?  You seemed pretty happy when he was on the phone!”

 

Stiles freezes in tandem with Isaac.  A long moment passes and then Isaac, back down to just the eyes again, says “Chris Argent is your dad?”

 

“Of course. Isn't he yours?”

 

Stiles laces his fingers with Isaac’s and turns so he’s both shielding Isaac and facing their other-selves.

 

“No,” Isaac says quietly. “My father is Creek Lahey.”

 

“Oh,” other-Isaac says, but there’s a wealth of understanding in the word. He and Isaac stare at each other, a silent conversation taking place.

 

****************************

 

This is him. 

 

It’s not the real him; it’s not even close but from this reaction and the way Proxy Isaac says his father’s name, it’s him.

 

“He’s dead though right,” Isaac begs, “He’s dead for you too isn’t he?” He has to be. There can’t be a universe in which he’s alive. 

 

The other him nods, his eyes still glowing. “He’s dead.”

 

“Okay good,” Isaac breathes. 

 

He doesn’t like people standing over him but he stays sitting in the garage sale chair, watching the others carefully. Stiles looks between him and the others and seems to make a decision. He sits down and offers Isaac his hand. 

 

Isaac accepts it, but his eyes are on Proxy Isaac who is breathing deeply. Isaac almost recognizes the breathing as the “4 in 4 out” pattern Stiles showed him when he was practicing for his Mindfulness lecture. He feels hazy and he’s not sure if it’s just because he’s high. Stiles is watching him, carefully. He knows that Stiles has only heard the name Creek Lahey spoken out loud a handful of times. On the rare occasions that Isaac does talk about his life before the Argents, it’s in half references, rarely names or open faced stories. Stiles has more than once pointed out that Isaac tries to pretend he didn’t exist before he moved to Chicago at sixteen, and Isaac never can figure out why that’s a bad thing. 

 

“He was my dad too,” Isaac says to Proxy Isaac. “I’m adopted. Chris adopted me when I was seventeen.” 

 

“But Creek is dead,” Proxy Stiles establishes. “In this universe he is dead, and he’s not coming anywhere near us.”

 

“He’s dead,” Isaac confirms, “He can’t get us.”

 

He and Proxy Isaac are making intent eye contact, and after a moment the yellow flickers out of Proxy Isaac’s eyes, and he takes a shuddering breath. 

 

“I don’t suppose he was killed by a kanima?” Proxy Isaac asks. 

 

A what? “He was hit by a car.”

 

“March, when you were sixteen and it was raining?” Proxy Isaac asks and Isaac feels fucking stunned. That’s right, all the way down to the rain. Stiles leans forward and rubs his right hand over his and Isaac’s joined hands. 

 

“Yeah,” Isaac says weakly. 

 

Malia chooses that moment to come out of the bedroom. “Beah is, against all odds, asleep. I see you haven’t killed each other.”

 

Isaac blinks rapidly and looks at the bedroom door. Then he shakes his head. “Look I’m sorry,” he says, “Just right now--can we fuck the rules? We’ll air out before she gets out here. I’m gonna--” he reaches in his pocket and takes the joint he was saving for after Beah went to bed and lights it. Proxy Isaac buries his face in the back of Proxy Stiles’ neck for a second and inhales deeply, then comes out from behind him, reaching out for the joint. Isaac offers it to him readily. 

 

When Isaac feels the pot wind its way through his system, and reality feels just a little less threatening, he asks the real question.

 

“So,” he gestures toward Proxy Isaac, “you’re a—?  What are you?” He bares his teeth to somehow get his message across, and he assumes it works, because Proxy Isaac nods.

 

“A werewolf.  I’m a werewolf.”

 

“Whoa,” Isaac says, but it’s blunted and soft and he assumes he’ll freak out more about this revelation later.  Instead he takes another hit and passes the joint to Proxy Isaac, his newest - and only - werewolf acquaintance.

 

They pass it back and forth and Stiles--and Proxy Stiles--watch as they do. Stiles wonders if the DNA they’re leaving on the joint is the same. It’s bizzare to see two highly different versions of the same person sharing in something so routinized. If this situation wasn’t so stressful Stiles might find it kind of hot.   And you know, if he hadn’t just heard the other Isaac say he was a  _ werewolf _ .  He’s mildly annoyed that Isaac is getting too high to flip out about it with him.

 

Malia throws her hands up, “If this is what it takes for some cooperation then fine. Whatever. I’m changing out of my uniform though, I’m not washing it again.  I don’t care if one of you is a werewolf.”

 

Stiles suddenly remembers why they were coming to the apartment in the first place. “You have to go to base,” he says.

 

Malia shakes her head. “I called. Told them I have a family emergency. I’ve been a model soldier for years--even with an infant--I’ve earned a family emergency. They won’t send me to the brig for not showing up.” She leaves, already shucking her jacket. 

 

That’s a relief at least. Stiles doesn’t want to be left totally alone, at least not before Chris--and presumably Peter--shows up. 

 

Proxy Stiles continues to watch the Isaacs--okay that was weird--puff and pass from where he stood. Stiles kind of wants to talk more about this werewolf thing, but even he can understand that a puff puff pass circle isn’t the time.  Instead he focuses on the fact Proxy Stiles isn’t joining in.

 

“You don’t smoke?” Stiles asks Proxy Stiles, “Does it make you paranoid?”

 

Proxy Stiles makes a face, “No? I’m just not going to get stoned when we’re in a bit of a situation. Since you know, our lives are mildly turned upside down.”

 

Wait. Isaac may have things in common with his proxy, but that doesn’t mean Stiles does. Does this Stiles have a issues with psychosis too? Is that why he is so on edge, does he also think that the stuff that is happening is a hallucination. Maybe that stuff that he was saying about the kanima and the phurba is a delusion and--

 

No. Proxy Isaac’s face had just turned into a werewolf face and everyone saw it. He isn’t hallucinating or delusional, and neither is this Stiles. 

 

“Um... “ Stiles starts, saying fuck it because maybe he’s in the wrong for interrupting the bonding and the smoking but seriously, someone has to address what just happened. “The fangs? The yellow eyes? Is that all part of it?”

 

“Ohhh,” Proxy Isaac says, “Red eyes. I get it now. Because of the pot. Not because you’re an Alpha. Right.”

 

Stiles waves his hands. “Okay, Alpha’s have red eyes? Like Alphas in what?”

 

The proxies look between each other and seem to make a decision. Proxy Isaac flashes yellow eyes for a faction of a second and says, “There’s different types of werewolves. Alphas have red eyes.”

 

“Shit,” Isaac says, “That’s why you thought I was one? No offense dude, but no. We don’t have those here. Like, at all. None of the things you said.”

 

“That you know of,” Proxy Stiles says condescendingly. “Most people in our world don’t know about the supernatural either, and you three don’t seem very on top of it.”

 

“Shut up!” Stiles protests. “Don’t break into our house then insult us. Okay so you’re a werewolf? That means like on the monthly you howl at the moon, eat rabbits?”

 

“Uh,” Proxy Isaac coughs out smoke that Stiles waves away. Malia is going to kill them for smoking up her nice couch. “No. I mostly just hang out with Stiles?”

 

“Oh, chill,” Stiles says sarcastically. They’re accepting this story easily because they have no choice. The proof is in front of him.

 

“We live in the foothills in North Carolina,” Proxy Isaac says, “There’s more places to run unchecked if I want to. It’s a lot less urban than where we grew up.”  

 

Isaac makes a face, and Stiles thinks he does too because while he’s never been where Isaac grew up in Indiana, he knows it’s anything but urban.

 

“Aren’t you from Hodge?” Isaac asks. The joint is whittling down quickly and he lets Proxy Isaac keep it. Proxy Isaac goes back to stand next to Proxy Stiles, who immediately begins rubbing his shoulder. 

 

“What’s Hodge?”

 

“It’s a stupid down in Indiana where I’m from,” Isaac says doubtfully. 

 

Proxy Isaac shakes his head. He looks to Proxy Stiles and they have a conversation with their eyes that ends when Proxy Stiles shrugs his shoulders and Proxy Isaac says, “I’m from Beacon Hills.”

 

“Wait,” Stiles says, “I’m from Beacon Hills. And I’ve never seen you before. I mean I’ve seen,” he gestures to Isaac and lets out a frustrated sigh. “Are  _ you  _ from Indiana then,” he asks, directing the question to Proxy Stiles. 

 

“I’m from Beacon Hills too.” 

 

Isaac--high--lets out a wonder filled sigh. “You grew up together? That’s so awesome. We didn’t meet until we were in our twenties. You’re so lucky.”

 

The proxies share a look, and Stiles squeezes Isaac’s hand, bracing for something because that was a  _ look.  _

 

****************************

 

Isaac mutters, “It was the best of times, it was the worst of times,” while holding Stiles’ gaze.

 

“What?” His other self raises an eyebrow at that, and Isaac looks back to Stiles. How much does he owe these people? They share their faces, sure, but that doesn’t mean he owes his soul.  On the other hand, he’s nicely high now, which provides a tiny buffer from reality and the joint reality of Creek Lahey has given him an artificial sense of closeness with his other self. Stiles’ face makes it clear this is his choice so he clears his throat and shrugs, glad Malia has gone back to the room to change.

 

“We both grew up there.  But we didn’t really know each other. Not until my father died. Chris Argent didn’t adopt me.  I didn’t really know him. Stiles knew him better then.”

 

Stiles snorts and rolls his eyes that the idea of murder and cover up meant he knew a damn thing about Chris but doesn’t contradict or interrupt.

 

“Chris Argent didn’t adopt me,” Isaac repeats.  “Instead I...lived with someone named Derek Hale.”

 

“Hey!” His other self says brightly, “I lived with Derek for awhile, too!”

 

His tone of voice and look on his face lets Isaac know that, shared father aside, they did  _ not _ share the same Derek Hale. And that, he realizes, is probably the difference, even more than werewolves. Why he is him and this world’s Isaac got to grow up and be functional and actually contemplate and  _ carry through  _ having a  _ child _ .  This world’s Isaac never met Frankenstein.  Creek Lahey may have broken him, but it was Derek who made him a monster.

 

“Not our Derek,” he says sullenly, picking at a loose string on the hem of his shirt.

 

“What...what does that mean?”  Isaac sees a look pass over other Stiles’ face, one that seems aware that this is going someplace bad.  Other Isaac just looks baffled. “I mean Derek wasn’t awesome and kind of non-functional, but he gave me a roof when I needed it.”

 

Isaac is an adult. He is an adult with years of therapy behind him. He is not still in Beacon Hills, he is not still with Derek. He can talk about this.  He can talk about this. He even talked to Derek when they first went back to Beacon Hills and he was  _ fine _ .  He is a fucking adult.  A fucking  _ adult _ .

 

“Derek was— My father gave him all the ingredients, but Derek— Derek—“

 

He looks helplessly at Stiles, aware his high is drifting away again and his breathing has gone even more erratic than when he’d thought his father was coming.  Stiles nods.

 

“Don’t.  I’ll do it.”  

 

And then Stiles stands and starts to unbutton his overshirt and Isaac’s heart fractures all over again.

 

“Stiles.”  

 

Stiles shakes his head and looks at him intently.  “No. This was not you, babe. This was not your fault.”

 

“It was. It was. I shouldn’t have— I should have—“

 

“No.” Stiles says it roughly, then reaches over to grab his chin and force him to see the truth in his words.  “We were  _ children _ and it was  _ not our fault _ .”

 

Then, over the indignant sputters of their other selves, Stiles shrugs off his overshirt, strips his t-shirt over his head, and exposes his back.

 

The scar is horrific, even after all these years.  Still red and angry and raised as it appears over the edge of the dagger sheaths and runs the length of Stiles’ spine and curves to follow his shoulder.

 

Isaac suppresses a whine and silently repeats Stiles’ words.   _ We were children. _

 

“This,” Stiles says to their other selves, his tone low and angry and ugly, “is Derek Hale.”

 


	5. Chapter 5

Isaac looks frantically from the scar on other Stiles to his Stiles and back. His mind goes to the scar on his elbow and he stomps it out because that’s  _ stupid  _ it’s not the same and that was his fault--not his fault but his mind is too addled right now for therapy thinking--and it’s not as bad. 

 

This is bad. This has taken a turn somehow worse than when they were reaching for knives. No one has to explain that the scar isn’t surgery, that it’s something bad and it’s Derek’s fault. 

 

Another world’s Derek. 

 

His Stiles sputters. “Derek is a  _ loser.  _ He--he comes to parties with single pieces of fruit and stands around--” 

 

“ _ Stiles,”  _ Isaac cuts him off. “Shut up.” 

 

The other thems look torn between surprised and resigned and angry. Isaac cuts Stiles a look and projects thoughts of early sessions with Reina, his first therapist, into his head. And it works. Stiles realizes what he’s said and claps his hand over his mouth. He turns to the other thems.

 

“I’m sorry,” he says, “I believe you.” 

 

Reina would be so proud. 

 

It’s easier to think that the Stiles and Isaac in front of them are basically them except the other Isaac is a werewolf and they live in a world with magical creatures. It’s kind of cool, really. Something his mind might come up with on a weekend with Erica’s cousins. But it’s not just that. 

 

“Something happened to you,” he says, not realizing he’s saying it out loud. 

 

“A lot of somethings happened to us,” the other Stiles says calmly. “Your Derek might be some fun lovable guy, but  _ our-- _ our  _ universe’s  _ Derek is a sociopathic monster that preyed on vulnerable teenagers.”

 

Isaac thinks of Derek coming over that one time--only one time--and joking around with Camden until their dad got home and he didn’t ask a question when Camden shoved him out the back door. He remembers Derek’s voice when Isaac called him at sixteen from his gas station cell phone and timidly said he was in Chicago, and where did Derek live, could he come stay with him? Derek gruffly provided the address and was downstairs when Isaac parked in his aunt’s stolen car and didn’t ask questions. Just brought him upstairs and offered him a slice of bread. 

 

In another world he was a monster. He  _ hurt people.  _ How could both he and Isaac have the same Creek Lahey--he knew without words it was the same--but such different Dereks? 

 

****************************

 

Stiles could tell the other thems were doing some serious processing. He can’t imagine living in a world where Derek Hale was somehow the good guy.  Hell, he can barely remember the time before Derek Hale became the bogey man, although he  _ knows _ he was different before he became alpha.  While they contemplate, he shrugs his t-shirt back on.  Isaac grabs his overshirt and instead of giving it to Stiles, puts it on himself and starts breathing deep.

 

He’s hurting, and Stiles isn’t sure if his brain has him back in Beacon Hills or if he’s solidly present.  Showing the scar was better than the alternative, but it wasn’t exactly awesome for either of them.

 

“What happened?” The other Stiles finally asks.

 

Isaac doesn’t speak, huddles deeper into Stiles’ shirt, so Stiles answers instead.  He wonders if he and Isaac’s Chris will be happy to know this universe’s Chris somehow managed to hide the underbelly of the supernatural world from his family.

 

“Beacon Hills was a war zone. I think that’s the easiest way to say it.  And Derek wanted to get as much power as possible. But Scott wasn’t willing to—“

 

“Scott’s there?  You and Scott are friends?”  The answer is important to other Stiles; he can tell by how intently he’s watching Stiles’ face.

 

“Uh, yeah. Best friends. Duh. Anyway.  Scott wasn’t willing to do things the way Derek wanted. So Derek started recruiting kids. Specific kids. Kids who had been victimized. Kids who— He promised them he would protect them. That they would be able to protect themselves.  And instead—“

 

“Instead he used us.” Isaac quietly takes over, his knees drawn to his chest. “He used us and he hurt us and we hurt other people. Because we finally  _ could _ .”

 

“How did you get out?” Again, it’s other Stiles, not other Isaac. Stiles considers that Isaac’s other self might be struggling to deal with all of this, but really— So not his first priority.

 

Isaac looks at Stiles, one corner of his mouth turning up.  “Stiles stole me.”

 

“Damn straight I did.” He smiles softly back. “And we made something new.”

 

“Damn straight we did,” Isaac returns.  And for a moment they’re in their own bubble, the only people in the room.

 

“So…” Other Stiles ruins the moment, because of course he does.  “Are you two like always two seconds away from fucking?”

 

“Stiles!” Other Isaac sounds a little scandalized.

 

“I’m just saying!”

 

Stiles considers this before answering honestly.  “Um...kind of? Aren’t you?”

 

“Not like that. We can keep private shit private.”

 

Stiles doesn’t even try to keep the ugly tone from his voice. “If you’d ever had to hide, you might feel different. I’m not ashamed of what—“

 

“What is Chris Argent to you?” Other Isaac isn’t even paying attention to he and Other Stiles anymore, and is instead focused completely on Isaac. Stiles wonders if he’s worried about another Derek sized revelations.  

 

That’s the million dollar question, Isaac thinks. He’s considered it before, ever since that brunch at the Argent house where he’d accepted the Argents  _ did _ somehow have a place in he and Stiles’ lives.  Problem is he’s never settled on an exact truth.

 

“It’s...complicated,” he vacillates.

 

His other self shakes his head.  “You calmed down when he was on the phone at first. I saw.  What is he to you?”

 

“The Argents are...friends?  They look out for us? But at the beginning...I was scared of him for a long time.”

 

“But—“

 

Isaac shakes his head.  “He tried to kill me a couple times.”

 

“ _ What!” _

 

Stiles makes an aggravated noise at that point and interrupts.  “Okay, look. Let’s just get this out there so you can stop freaking out every time we mention something awful.  A lot of people tried to kill us. Some of those people are our friends now. Some of them are still assholes. Some of them we killed before they killed us.  Got it? And the Argents helped us stay safe from Derek and baked us cookies so we’re cool now.”

 

Isaac nodded. “But I still don’t want him to adopt me or anything.”

 

****************************

 

For the thousandth time Isaac reminds himself that this isn’t him, which means that their Chris isn’t his Chris because his Chris would  _ never  _ try to kill him even if there were supernatural things happening and Derek was a fucking psychopath. 

 

But still. 

 

“You don’t want him to adopt you?” he asks. Things really must be different because he can’t imagine anyone not wanting that. “Everyone wants Chris to adopt them.” 

 

The other Isaac and Stiles look at each other in disbelief. “Chris Argent,” the other Stiles clarifies, “the hunter.” 

 

Okay, maybe this is the problem. Maybe the other Chris is a game hunter and yeah, those people totally suck. Maybe this Isaac is into animal rights too, and is a vegetarian too, and is offended that Chris hunts game. “Chris doesn’t hunt,” he clarifies, glad that he has a bulletproof way to defend his dad, “He’s into free range meat, but he doesn’t--I mean lots of people eat meat.” 

 

The other Stiles’ eyes bug out like he can’t believe what he’s hearing. “Mr. Argent is a  _ werewolf  _ hunter.” He points to the other Isaac with punctuation. “Werewolf.” 

 

What the fuck. 

 

“He  _ hunted you? _ ” Stiles asks the other Isaac. 

 

“Again,” the other Stiles says, sounding frustrated, “Bad things. Lots of them. People tried to kill us. I take it no one has ever tried to kill you.”

 

Malia scoffs and everyone looks over at her immediately. She’s pulled up a kitchen chair and has been sitting quietly with her elbows on her knees, so quietly that Isaac almost forgot she was there.

 

“What?” the other Isaac asks, sounding a little alarmed. 

 

Isaac looks at Stiles. He knows right away that it’s unsubtle as hell but he’s  _ high  _ and experiencing a million revelations a minute so he forgives himself. 

 

Stiles clears his throat. “Ah, no,” he says, “No, we actually haven’t exactly been trauma free to be honest. But uh, none of the supernatural stuff. There’s no werewolves or--kaminas?--in this world. Just regular old people. And people suck.”

 

The other Stiles nods grimly and the other Isaac pulls the collar of his Stiles’s shirt over his face for a moment and breathes deeply. Which honestly, Isaac does with Stiles’ dumb sweaters too. The other Stiles reaches over and runs his hand over his knee. 

 

Should Isaac be touching Stiles like that? He looks over and checks to see any sign that Stiles is distressed that the conversation has turned this way, but he’s calm in the way that Stiles gets, where he smooths the calm over everything and is in control. 

 

He doesn’t know how he and Malia do it without pot. 

 

“I--did you ever have that--is one of the bad things that Ellis Montagaugh came to the Sheriff’s station and held you, Scott, and Dad hostage? And shot Scott?” The other thems stare at Stiles, so Stiles continues, “Like, April 5th? When we were sixteen?”

 

The other Stiles takes a breath and looks at the other Isaac. He looks back at Stiles. “You mean Matt Dahler?”

 

“Matt Dahler?” Isaac interjects. What could Matt Dahler possibly have to do with this? “No, Matt Dahler is from my life. We grew up together and were friends until middle school. He didn’t shoot anyone.”

 

“Well he did in our world,” the other Stiles says, “He’s the one who controlled the kanima--a lizardlike shapeshifter who killed half a dozen people including Isaac’s--” Isaac’s hand shoots out from under the overshirt and the other Stiles grips it tight, “--father. He’s the one who came to the sheriff’s station with a gun. He shot Scott but he healed--werewolves can heal. But your Scott--”

 

“Is human,” Stiles confirms, “so he--he bled and I had to keep him alive until we got out of it.”

 

Isaac reaches over and runs his hand down the back of Stiles’ head and Stiles reaches up and takes his hand. They’ve talked about this before, over and over some nights, but it’s still hard to hear it every time. The first time he found out what happened he was so mad he wanted to track down Montagaugh in prison and kill him.

 

“People are awful,” the other Isaac says. The other Stiles nods grimly. 

 

“Some of them are,” Siltes agrees.

 

There’s a commotion in the bedroom, and Malia is on her feet in an instant. But she isn’t fast enough. The door opens and Beah burst out like a ball of electricity. 

 

“I want food! I’m hungry! It’s night time so I need dinner! Right now Mama right now!”


	6. Chapter 6

 

Isaac stares at the tiny, terrifying human that belongs to his other self.  Nobody is saying anything so he offers, “You should feed her, right? She should eat?  We’re not gonna hurt her or anything so you should feed her.” He remembers one time his dad didn’t let him eat for three days as punishment for sneaking ice cream.  Someone should feed this kid.

 

Beah grabs Malia’s hand and allows herself to be led to the kitchen area. Fake Stiles springs up and opens some windows while Fake Isaac turns on a fan, and the small amount of smoke that was in the room quickly dissipates. “Mama, why are there two Daddy’s and Papa’s? That Daddy and Papa have dirt on their clothes.  They should change their clothes. Dirty clothes don’t belong on the furniture,” she sing songs.

 

“You’re right, Beah.” Malia gives the two of them a dirty look, pointedly focused on the blood on their clothes that Isaac had totally forgotten was there. “They should change clothes.  And they aren’t Daddy and Papa.”

 

“But they look like Daddy and Papa.  I don’t like it. Can I have ice cream? When I’m sad Grandpa gives me ice cream.  I think I’m sad.”

 

“No Beah,” Fake Isaac - Isaac decides he can’t actually call him that anymore, even in his head and settles on Isaac 2 - says.  “No ice cream. You can have strawberries after supper, okay?”

 

“Ice cream!  ICE CREAM!” Stiles looks horrified. Isaac feels horrified. 

 

“You should give her ice cream!”

 

“Oh my god,” Malia huffs.  “You wimp.” She kneels next to Beah. “No ice cream. But Grandpa is coming so you can probably con him into getting you some.” Beah cheers and throws her arms around Malia, then looks suspiciously at both he and Stiles and their other selves.

 

Malia points to the bedroom. “Go change. Stiles and Isaac have changes of clothes in the top drawer.

 

Frankly, Isaac could use a break, so he grabs Stiles’ hand and pulls him into the bedroom.  As soon as Stiles closes the door he launches himself into his arms and frantically holds on.

 

“This is fucked up.  This is super fucked up.  Do you think the other Isaac has more pot?  Should I be smoking more pot at home?”

 

Stiles tugs on his curls, making Isaac hum.  “No, you don’t. You don’t need the pot at home because you have other coping mechanisms and other things you like. This is an unusual high stress situation.  So we can definitely ask for more pot if you want.”

 

“Okay, okay.” They stay like that for several minutes, pretending the world outside the room doesn’t exist.

 

****************************

 

Malia looks after the proxies and sighs. “There’s nothing they can use as a weapon in the bedroom,” she says, gesturing to her own jacket. 

 

“I think we’re past that,” Isaac says.

 

Stiles isn’t so sure, but they seem chill about Beah at least, if not a little frightened of her. He and Isaac come into the kitchen, pulling the wooden sliding door to the living room closed behind them. He takes a seat at the kitchen table, Beah lets go of Malia and clambers on top of him, settling happily in his lap and grabbing onto the collar of his shirt. 

 

Malia pulls the freezer door open, “I don’t know if you realized this, but I was supposed to be at the mess hall right now so I don’t have dinner ready for Bay.”

 

Beah looks over and notices the freezer is open, “Ice cream?” she shrieks. Stiles winces at the noise.

 

Malia pulls a covered reusable platter out of the fridge and checks the labels, “I guess I’m going to finally use one of the veggie casseroles Isaac is always foisting on me.” 

 

Stiles hugs Beah tight. She smells like Beah. That’s one thing to be relieved about. There’s no Beah in this scary dangerous alternative universe. She’s safe here in this world where the scariest thing is her country’s president. Which is still really scary. 

 

Hey, they should ask the proxies who their president is. Something has to give in their world, maybe they got Hilary. 

 

Isaac stands up and goes to the kitchen to help. “You thawed it? How long has it been thawed?”

 

“Just today, I was going to give it to you jerk faces for dinner. Now I guess we’re feeding six.”

 

“You’re not supposed to say jerk!” Beah protests, “The rules!” 

 

“Sorry Bay,” Isaac and Malia say in unison, even though Isaac hasn’t said anything. 

 

The door to the bedroom is in the kitchen, and the proxies could walk out any minute. He holds Beah tight and stands up. She’s getting big now, but she still loves behind held and she digs her knees into his hips and loops her arms around his neck. 

 

“You’re my real Papa,” she whispers. 

 

“I am,” Stiles says. This was not in any of the parenting books Chris gave them. He’s making it up as he goes. “And that’s Daddy, okay? In the white shirt, that’s Daddy. And this is me, in my silly flamingo shirt, right?”

 

Beah giggles, “Silly flamingos,” she says, “They’re pink. I love pink.” 

 

“And I love you, Bay Bay,” he says. He over to where Isaac is rooting around Malia’s empty food cabinets and comes up with a bag of white rice. “Are we feeding them?”

 

Isaac looks up at him from where he’s crouched grabbing a pot from a cabinet. He shrugs. “We have to feed them, right? They eat food like us.”

 

“Are the new daddies going to stay here forever?” Beah asks into Stiles’ shoulder. 

 

Stiles’ heart stops. God, what if they were? What would they do, pretend they both had long lost twins with weird hair and serious PDA issues? Where would they keep them? Their house and Malia’s apartment was tiny. Oh god. What if they couldn’t get rid of them tonight and they had to have a big old sleepover? 

 

“No Beah,” Malia says firmly, “They aren’t your daddies, they just look a little like them. Grandpa is coming to help them find their own home.” 

 

“Is Uncle Peter and JoJo coming too?”

 

Stiles looks at Isaac and Isaac looks back at him like  _ I don’t know _ . “I think so Beah,” he says. There’s no way their sitter was available on get-in-the-car-and-get-to-the-airport-in-record-time notice. But maybe they did. It’s Chris Argent, anything is possible. 

 

Beah says, “And Mama is staying?”

 

“For now honey,” Malia said, “Listen, don’t worry about the other men okay? They’re going to eat dinner with us, and Grandpa will be here very soon and he’ll help us figure it out.”

 

“Do they like the same things as like Daddy and Papa like?”

 

“They’re not the same as us,” Stiles says, “I know it’s confusing.”

 

“No,” Beah says, “Other Daddy has poofy hair and isn’t so happy as Daddy, and other Papa has a thingy on his face.”

 

They look between each other. Sitles noticed the scar right away, it was one of the first thing he logged as a hallucination, that he can now attribute to the  _ absolutely insane life of fighting supernatural creatures  _ that they led. He didn’t think that Beah would notice it. 

 

“Yes,” Stiles agrees, “They look different because they are different people. They probably think you’re a really cool kid, because you are, but they aren’t your daddies.”

 

“Got it,” Beah says. She tugs on Stiles’ collar. “You should give them cheese. Cheese will make them happier.” 

 

“We need another vegetable,” Isaac says, clearly not hearing the cheese comment, “and we need rolls.”

 

“We do not need rolls,” Stiles says, “I promise, when we get home you can make a thousand rolls until our house is full up with rolls, but this isn’t a dinner party. We’re just feeding our kid and they happen to be here.”

 

“They’re probably hungry,” Isaac says, “If that one is really you, he probably stress eats.”

 

“He’s not me,” he says, inclining his head towards Beah to whom they have been trying to make  _ very clear  _ that the proxies are not her daddies. “And no one stress eats your veggie casserole.”

 

“You’re so mean to me and I’m so nice to you all the time,” Isaac grouses. He puts a lid on the rice and puts his arms out “Give me my daughter please.” 

 

Beah hears him before Stiles moves and she swivels and holds her arms out for Isaac, falling into him, trusting that her daddies won’t drop her. Isaac gathers her in his arms just as the bedroom door opens. 

 

****************************

 

They end up in two white t-shirts, because it’s the least offensive clothing option available. Stiles’ other self clearly has the fashion sense of a fifty year old man driving an RV. 

 

They stay in the bedroom a few minutes more than strictly necessary; Stiles has a hickey right above the collar of his shirt - “Just in case they get confused” Isaac explains - before they decide they can’t put it off any longer.

 

Then they walk out the room and Stiles’ world tilts on its axis because there’s Isaac, holding a preschooler, and for half a second his brain refuses to acknowledge this is an alternative version of Isaac, and not his Isaac.

 

Out of all the things for which Stiles hates Derek Hale, the fact that he’s stolen this from Isaac has to be the top three.  Because Stiles knows Isaac would be a  _ kickass  _ Dad, once he stopped being afraid of the idea, stopped seeing a kid as something inherently fragile that he would break. But that’s not for them; he’d accepted that the first time he’d casually mentioned the idea to Isaac and Isaac had cut him off with a single, solitary, final  _ No. _

 

Stiles never brings it up again and nothing in their lives brings them into regular contact with humans under the age of 18.

 

The world rights itself and he makes a show of sniffing the air. “Oh holy shit, there’s food, Isaac.”  Isaac jerks his attention from where he’d been staring at his mark on Stiles’ collar bone and takes in the rest of the room

 

“Hey, is that veggie casserole? This restaurant in Asheville uses lasagna noodles as crust and it is  _ orgasmic _ !”

 

“See!” Other Isaac crows triumphantly, and at the same time Beah asks, “What does orgasmic mean?”

 

Other Stiles gives Isaac a murderous look and other Isaac smooths a hand down Beah’s hair.  “He meant to say awesome, Bay Bay. Awesome.”

 

“No.  No I said exactly what I meant to say. I meant to say—“

 

Beah shuts Isaac right up when she twists in other Isaac’s arms and peers intently at the two of them.

 

“Hello other daddies. You’re wearing Daddy’s shirts now.  Did you want to hold me?”

 

“No!” Malia interjects, before Stiles can even say  _ anything. “ _ They don’t want to hold you.”

 

Beah’s lips turn down. “You don’t want to hold me?”

 

Stiles glares. He may not know a shit ton about kids, but he does know it’s a shitty thing to say you  _ don’t _ want to be around them.  “Sorry, Beah,” he lobs right back, “Your Mommy doesn’t want me to hold you.”

 

Beah turns her mad face to Malia. “Mama?  Why can’t the other daddies hold me?”

 

“Beah,” other Stiles sounds frustrated. “What did we just talk about?”

 

Beah says, like a recitation, “They are not my daddies. But I think they want to hold me. Don’t you want to hold me, other daddies?”

 

Isaac nods, surprising the shit out of Stiles. “I’ll hold you.” He looks over her head to Malia. “I’ll be careful. Promise.”

 

“Fine,” Malia finally says, face saying clearly this is anything but fine. “But I am fully trained to take you out. Remember that.”

 

Stiles rolls his eyes, because that would be the day. Malia rolls her eyes right back.

 

Then Beah launches herself from other Isaac’s arms into thin air and Isaac has to lunge forward to catch her.  She laughs hysterically and throws her arms around his neck. “Catch!”

 

Isaac looks at Stiles, clearly terrified, but other Isaac is already there.  “Jesus, man. She’s not an egg. You’re not gonna break her. Just— Christ, relax. You don’t have to be so stiff.” He manually rearranges Isaac’s arms and Stiles stares, transfixed, at the image of two Isaac’s with their heads bent low together. He catches other Stiles staring bemusedly, too, and wonders what’s going through his head.

 

Beah looks out over Isaac’s shoulder and reaches out a hand. She presses a thumb against the scar on Stiles’ forehead.  “What’s this?”

 

****************************

  
  


“Beah!” the Isaac, Stiles, and Malia say at the same time. She startles in the other Isaac’s arms which makes his eyes go wide. The other Isaac looks at them like they’ve done something wrong. Isaac momentarily resents him for it, because he’s constantly terrified of doing something wrong already. 

 

“We just told her not to ask strangers personal questions,” Isaac explains. 

 

“He’s not a stranger! He’s staying for dinner,” Beah protests and reaches out to touch the scar again but the other Stiles subtly steps back. 

 

“I’m sorry,” Stiles says, “Seriously, she’s just--”

 

The other Stiles holds up a hand, “It’s okay. She’s just a kid. Beah, it’s a scar.”

 

Beah gets excited. “I know scars! I have a scar on my knee from the ugly leaves with the rake it was  _ so  _ yucky. And Mama has scars  _ all over  _ from her car crash and Daddy--” 

 

“Beah,” Isaac interrupts because now the other Isaac is looking at him with alarm and judgement and betrayal and a thousand other things and Isaac shakes his head rapidly. “We haven’t told her,” he mouths, hoping it lands, hoping that the other Isaac isn’t going to spontaneously reveal that he’s a survivor when he’s  _ not ready  _ to have that conversation with Beah. 

 

Undeterred, Beah pulls herself up over the other Isaac’s shoulder to get closer to the other Stiles. “Did you fall on a rake too?” The other Isaac frantically rearranges his arms to accommodate her movement and Isaac nods to him, affirming that he’s doing it right. It’s so bizzare to see someone who looks like him but doesn’t look like him holding his daughter, and probably looking as freaked out as he was the first time he did in the hospital. 

 

The other Stiles looks at the three of them, almost like he’s seeking approval, before he makes eye contact with Beah. “I didn’t fall on a rake. Someone hurt me.”

 


	7. Chapter 7

It’s like all the air is sucked of out of the room. They don’t lie to Beah, she knows that there is potential in this world of people to hurt one another. It’s essential for her to know that. She also knows that her parents will do whatever they can to protect her from those people, and that it’s her Grandpa’s job to make the world safer. 

 

Beah hooks her arm over the other Isaac’s shoulder for balance and turns back to her parents to see what they think of all of this. Isaac has heard so much today, he doesn’t know what to say or what to make his face do for Beah and he is  _ failing as a father.  _

 

“Why?” Beah asks, sounding heartbroken. Isaac steps forward and rubs her back. He looks back at Stiles who is watching the other Stiles intently, with a grim set to his jaw. Does he know somehow what’s coming? Does he have a psychic connection with the other Stiles?

 

“They hurt me--” the other Stiles starts. 

 

“Three years old,” Malia interrupts, “This is a three year old.” 

 

He doesn’t trust the other Stiles to modulate for a three year old, either. After all, the other Isaac had just seconds ago insisted on saying the word “orgasmic” twice and even if he is proving to be competent at holding her, these two clearly don’t spend a lot of time around kids. 

 

But the other Stiles just cuts Malia a look and continues, “--because he didn’t like something about me. He thought it was wrong, and thought he could hurt me because of it.” 

 

“Because you’re queer?” Beah asks knowledgeably. 

 

Isaac feels like there is a sledgehammer knocked into his chest. They don’t lie to Beah--they live in  _ Texas-- _ she knows that there were people who don’t like that her daddies love each other. Hell, she’s heard it in the WalMart parking lot, more than once. But to hear her understanding so clearly, that she understands that someone would hurt the other Stiles for being queer--it’s heartbreaking. 

 

Stiles comes up to them and puts his hand on Isaac’s back, connecting the three of them in a chain. Malia stands against the counter with her hand over her mouth. 

 

He isn’t imagining things when he sees the other Isaac’s arms tighten around her. He wishes he had her in his arms to do the same. 

 

The other Stiles looks taken aback. He gathers himself and clears his throat, “Yeah, kiddo,” he says, “Because of that.” 

 

“Trump,” Beah says confidently, having found the cause. 

 

His Stiles laughs first, a desperate laugh looking for something light in this bullshit situation, and Isaac can’t help but follow. The other Isaac looks at them murderously. 

 

“You think this is  _ funny? _ ” he demands. Beah pulls herself back from over his shoulder to look at who was talking to her daddies this way. She seems to have forgotten that the man holding her looks like her Daddy, because she startles and looks back at Isaac, looking confused all over again. 

 

“No!” Stiles says, “It’s just, she understands that people have been emboldened by Trump, and that the uptick in hate crimes is in part because of the new administration.” 

 

The others look at each other confused, “The new administration? You mean President Clinton?”

 

Stiles laughs happily. “Oh shit! I knew it!”

 

“Papa! Bad word!” Beah shrieks. 

 

**************

 

Isaac isn’t worried about losing control anymore.  Not after having the space to ground himself properly to Stiles, to anchor himself in the clear reality that no matter their past, he’s stronger than anything Derek or his father did to him. He’s good, because he’s his, and he’s Stiles’, and together they made something new.

 

Otherwise, he never would have trusted himself to touch Beah.

 

But he wanted to pretend, for just a minute. To see what it would be like. To hold this little human that, in some world belongs to him and Stiles. He feels guilty he took that from Stiles, took the possibility of kids. Because even though Stiles only ever mentioned it once, Isaac knows he wouldn’t have asked if it hadn’t meant something to him. But he’d known...known for years he would never risk being his father. Never risk passing that legacy down. He hadn’t even had to think about his answer.

 

The problem is, of course, that that was six years ago, before Dr. Martin and before facing Beacon Hills, and it’s never occurred to him to re-evaluate. The topic of kids has never even come up in therapy. Which, now that he thinks about it, is weird considering how thorough Dr. Martin is in everything.

 

Stiles 2.0 is apologizing to Beah for cursing and Malia is smacking the back of his head and Isaac is silently thanking his stars that at least his reality didn’t come with a President Tru— Nope, he can’t even think the words.

 

The minor chaos is quieting down and Beah is patting both his cheeks with her hands - okay, now that he isn’t totally terrified he has to admit she’s a cute kid--when Isaac 2.0 asks quietly—

 

“What was it like?”

 

Everything goes still and Isaac understands what his other self wants to know. What was it like for him? What was it like to be helpless, to see his lover broken and bruised and bleeding? Isaac 2.0 might logically know Isaac and Stiles aren’t the same people, but just like Isaac can’t look at Beah without thinking she’s somehow connected to he and Stiles, Isaac 2.0 feels the twisting fear of his Stiles being hurt by proxy.

 

“It was horrific,” he answers, looking only at Isaac 2.0 and no one else.  “It was the worst thing that has ever happened.” And he means that in all ways. “He didn’t gain full consciousness for 48 hours.  There was bleeding in his brain. They didn’t know at first if he would even live.” Those two weeks are perfectly etched in his memory, along with the aching panic that suffocated him every second of every day.  It it hadn’t been for the recollection of that second of satisfaction, of watching the light disappear from—

 

He stops that train of thought and just repeats, “It was horrific.”

 

“What happened to his attacker?”

 

“They never found him.” He keeps his words carefully steady and doesn’t drop Isaac 2.0’s gaze, but 2.0 blinks once, twice, then sucks in a quick breath, and Isaac knows he somehow hears what Isaac has only said aloud once.

 

Isaac 2.0’s eyes drop to Beah and he starts to hold out his hands, and Isaac knows what’s coming.  He doesn’t wait for the words.

 

“Here, Bay Bay. I think your Daddy wants you back.” Isaac understands. He probably wouldn’t trust him with his kid either.

 

“No.” Beah fists a hand in his collar and lets out a shrill scream.  “You take me to the table!”

 

Isaac looks helplessly at Isaac 2.0 while Stiles 2.0 shrugs.  “Just let him take her to the table.”

 

Beah grins triumphantly and pats his cheeks again. “Other Daddy, do you have scars?”

 

*************

 

“Beah,” Isaac says, this time more exasperated than shocked. 

 

“You  _ like _ when I ask questions!” she protests. 

 

Isaac looks helplessly at Malia and Stiles who are calmly setting the table for dinner for six. They haven’t heard what’s happening. Malia zapped the casserole so it’s ready, and the rice will be done at any minute. They didn’t hear the conversation that he just had with the other Isaac. 

 

Okay so he didn’t say it out loud, but he  _ knows  _ what the other Isaac did. And he can’t blame him. He remembers years ago when he first heard the story of Ellis Montegaugh and what happened at the station, he looked up his prisoner ID and contemplated getting caught with his whole stash so he would end up in prison (where his aunt always said he would end up anyway) and end him and that way end some of the pain Stiles had. Montegaugh hadn’t touched Stiles that night, but he had traumatized him for the rest of his life and every time Stiles lost touch with reality for a few weeks or sheepishly left the lights on after checking the front door eleven times, Isaac knows who to blame. He feels sick imagining someone hurting his Stiles the way the other Stiles had been hurt. He would want to kill them. 

 

But he didn’t know that he actually would. 

 

He wants to be holding Beah right now because he is selfish. It isn’t that he thought the other Isaac is going to up and hurt her, he just wants to have his daughter in his arms after hearing what he just heard. And is possibly about to hear.

 

The other Isaac looks at him like he is supposed to know how to handle this. “She doesn’t know,” he says, out loud this time. And why would she? She is three years old. She doesn’t know about Montegaugh either, why would she know about Creek Lahey? 

 

He doesn’t know if he and this Isaac even have the same scars. He doesn’t have a scar on his cheekbone from the night Creek died. Maybe being a werewolf diseappeared his scars, or maybe he had even more than Isaac did from supernatural life. The stuff from home, those could be different. The house Isaac grew up in in California has to be different from his house in Indiana, it wouldn't have the same coffee table with the sharp edges, or unfinished basement stairs or the same broken glass or the--Isaac cuts off the thoughts before he starts cataloguing his body and the memories that come with the marks, some innocuous enough, some so clearly sinister that Stiles stopped the first time he encountered them and looked up at him with unsure eyes.

 

Beah knows about the one on his elbow, a few others--the white marks on his hand from glass,  the thick line on his calf--but she doesn’t get why they were there, and he brushes her off. He never explains the way Malia does. 

 

“I know,” the other Isaac says, “I’m not going to say anything.”

 

“You’re not going to answer my question?” Beah asks, her voice shrill. Isaac reaches out and strokes her hair. She’s not normally this emotional but well--her night is totally fucked up so he can’t blame her. 

 

“No I’m going to answer,” the other Isaac promises, in a serious voice. “I think I should just put you in your chair first don’t you?”

 

“No,” Beah says, patting his cheeks, “You should tell me then put me in my chair.”

 

Isaac is itching to get Beah into his arms but when the other Isaac looks to him for confirmation he just shrugs. He’s not going to grab Beah and yank her away. 

 

“I have scars,” the other Isaac says, “Just like a lot of people do.”

 

Beah nods solemnly, “Because my Daddy has scars, and you look like my Daddy, so you do to. Why do you have scars?” she asks, looking between them, “Did someone hurt you too?”

 

Jesus Christ. Why can’t he get a break today? He’s not high enough for this--or he’s too high to even start to handle it. But he doesn’t have to, because the other Isaac takes a breath and starts talking. 

 

“Sometimes things happen that hurt us, and things happened that hurt me and your daddy more than other kids. It doesn’t mean anything bad about us, they just happened.” 

 

“Like falling on the rake? Are things going to happen to me?” Beah asks.  

 

“No!” Isaac and the other Isaac say at the same time. They look at each other, and Isaac hopes that in his eyes the other Isaac sees what he’s saying.  _ I’m not like him. I’m not like him.  _

 

The other Isaac nods imperceptibly. 

 

Beah twists in the other Isaac’s arms, groping for his right elbow. Isaac can see that he doesn’t have the surgery scar--which maybe means he was never dragged down the basement stairs and he caught a break in that department at least--and when Beah discovers nothing but smooth white skin she looks up at the other Isaac betrayed. 

 

“You’re not my daddy,” she says angrily. 

 

“No, I’m not,” he agrees. 

 

Beah’s face crumbles and she launches herself towards Isaac, trusting that he will catch her. Isaac puts his arms out and catches her. He notices that the other Isaac keeps his hands around her waist, like he’s making sure she landed alright. 

 

“Okay hellions,” Malia says, “Isaac--the one from Chicago--worked very hard to get this meal on the table. So let's sit down and make polite conversation about the weather--assuming you have weather where you’re from--and eat this disgusting food. 

 

“Why are you all so mean to me?” Isaac complains, “All I do is feed you.”

 

In his arms Beah swivels around, groping for the pink scar tissue on his elbow. When she finds it she sighs. “ _ You’re  _ my daddy.”

 

“Yes I am,” Isaac confirms. 

 

They all sit down at the table set with Malia’s mismatched plates and cutlery. Stiles picks up the veggie casserole and takes a small helping then offers it to other Stiles. For a minute things are almost normal, it’s almost like they are badly entertaining dinner guests. 

 

Then Stiles’ phone starts ringing. 

  
  



	8. Chapter 8

Chris is unsure of the situation into which he is walking. 

If it were just Stiles involved, he would assume Stiles was experiencing an extension of his latest episode. It would be worrying, and he would want to help, but it’s something they know how to handle.

If it were just Isaac, Chris would wonder if he had accidentally gotten a batch of pot contaminated with a dangerous filler, or less likely, decided to expand his drug use to something harder. Disappointing, and also worriesome, but again, something quantifiable, explainable, and able to be handled.

But Malia is there, and Malia wouldn’t do drugs. For that matter, none of them would do drugs around Beah. Which leaves him wondering if this all comes back to him.

“The ERI was on the verge of truly incredible advances with masking tech last I heard. They were extremely upset Argent Arms stopped supplying them. They lost a lot of ground and their competitors snapped up part of their territory.” He had been horrified when he’d realized Gerard had been supplying what was, when stripped away of window dressing and niceties, a terrorist organization. It was only one of over a dozen contracts he’d delicately extracted the company from after Gerard’s death. “It’s feasible it’s operational now and they are attempting retribution.”

They’d landed half an hour ago and are just now pulling away from the storage unit he’d been renting since his son moved his family to Austin. The gun under his jacket is a reassuring weight, just as the knife strapped to his forearm is, just as the garrote wrapped around his ankle is.

Peter has one hand on Chris’ thigh and one reaching behind him to hold JoJo’s hand in her car seat. When Chris says retribution his grip tightens to the point of pain before relaxing. “And their voices?”

Chris scoffs. “Voice modulators are neither new nor rare. I can get one in two of the neighborhoods we’re driving through from half a dozen suppliers.”

“Christopher, you know what it does to me when you talk dirty.”

Chris gives him a half grin even as his fingers grip white knuckle on the steering wheel of the rental car. “They knew who I was, Peter. You heard them.”

“I heard them. But they sounded less like Assassins and more like…”

He trails off without finishing but Chris knows he meant Isaac and Stiles.

“What if they have my child, Peter? Our grandchild?”

Peter pulls his cell phone out and dials Stiles’ number, while looking steadily at Chris. “You know what we do.”

Chris shakes his head and makes an aggravated noise in his throat. “It’s not going to come to that. We’re not going to do that. We don’t do that—“ 

Peter hums, low and noncommittal. “I’ve never been a good man, Christopher Argent-Hale. Don’t forget you canceled my contract, too.” Then he hits send. “Find out if we need to take Josephine to Teo’s.”

Stiles picks up on the second ring. “Oh my god, Chris. Thank god. You’re here, right? I’m putting you on speaker.”

“Stiles, what is my favorite sports team?”

“Huh? What? You don’t do sports, why would you have a favorite sports team? Why do you keep asking weird questions?”

Another voice interrupts, sounding almost like Stiles, but with a hard, bitten edge Stiles’ voice has never had. “Because he wants to make sure it’s you, not me, you idiot. Jesus Christ, how have you survived this long? Mr. Argent, why didn’t you teach either of them anything? Like I get the whole not wanting to expose—”

He exchanges a look with Peter but doesn’t break stride as he takes a corner far too fast and interrupts.

“Is everyone okay, Stiles? Isaac, are you okay?”

“Grandpa!” Beah’s voice screeches through the phone so loud her face must be right against it.

“Hello, Beah,” he says sweetly. Then, “Malia?”

Malia’s voice is reassuring in its irritation. “We’re all fine. We’re eating dinner. Your grandchild tried to adopt extra parents. And she told us you gave her ice cream.”

Chris doesn’t address the last part. Grandparent privilege. “We’ll be there in five minutes.” 

He hangs up as they pull into Malia’s apartment complex, five minutes earlier than his promise. It’s better that the North Carolina men don’t have their exact schedule. Just in case.

“Let me go first,” Chris says. Peter opens his mouth but shuts it when Chris looks meaningfully at JoJo in the backseat and back to Peter. “Let me go first. If you don’t hear anything, then come.”

“And if I do?”

“Take JoJo to Teo’s. And then come get me.”

Peter nods grimly and Chris steps out of the car.

“See you soon.”

***************

The knock at the door startles everyone except Beah and Malia who simply look over at the door. Isaac glances back at Stiles before jumping up and going to the door. The front door is in the kitchen and everyone will be able to see who it is once the door opens, but the proxies and Malia stand so Stiles does too. 

“Grandpa!” Beah cheers from her seat, clapping happily. 

The proxies are in fighting stance again, looking intently at the door like they're ready for the Boogeyman to come out of it. Isaac isn't nearly so concerned, he starts undoing the deadbolts just in time for Stiles to realize the Boogeyman could be at the door.

“Wait, Isaac--” 

But Isaac has already worked the door open and standing there--as calm as he ever is--is Chris. He takes one step into the apartment before Isaac throws his arms around him. 

Chris hugs him back but he's at work right away, scanning the kitchen. Stiles know it looks insane. He’s standing across the table from proxy Stiles who is wearing one of Isaac's work shirts and has a scar on his face that Stiles never had, and a grim set to his jaw that Stiles never had either. The proxy Isaac frankly looks more like Isaac, maybe because it's Isaac's clothes he's wearing but the hair is different and he's not looking at Chris the same way Isaac does. 

Malia is in uniform with her fall jacket conspicuously thrown over it. Chris himself looks normal, wearing his normal dark jacket and pants and Stiles isn't sure if he was expecting him to be armed but he clearly isn't. 

Chris braces his hand on the back of Isaac's head and whispers something in his ear. Isaac pulls back, bringing Chris’ hand to fall to the back of his neck. “Lemon cookies,” Isaac says confidently. 

“Alright,” Chris says. He scans them at the table then his gaze falls on Beah, sitting between Stiles and Isaac’s empty chair. He smiles at her, “Hello Beah,” he says. 

Beah squeals and jumps out of her chair, not noticing that her head is inches from hitting the edge of the table. She runs over to Chris and pulls at Isaac, pulling him away from her so she can get to Grandpa. Isaac steps back, allowing Beah to hug Chris’ leg and look up at him adoringly. “Mama said you brought my ice cream. Where is my ice cream? Can I have it?”

Everyone is frozen, watching what Chris will do. He leans over and runs her hand over her head saying, “Hello Bay,” but doesn’t pick her up and Stiles realizes from the stiff way he keeps himself away from her that he is armed. 

“Mr. Argent,” Proxy Stiles says, “Finally you’re here. Will you please update these three so we can make some progress?”

Chris glances over at him, probably taking in all the differences between him and Stiles before looking at Stiles. “What is the name of the first bar your father and I went to?”

“Shakey’s,” Stiles says immediately. 

“We have a Shakey’s,” Proxy Isaac says, “I don’t know if Dad and Mr. Argent ever went there though.”

“Dad?” Isaac asks.

“Not him,” Proxy Isaac says immediately. Chris watches them carefully. 

Proxy Stiles waves his arms, and for a minute, just a minute, Stiles recognizes himself in this person. “Hello? We can compare notes later. Let’s get down to business and figure out what happened.” 

Chris clears his throat. “You’re eating dinner?”

Their plates are loaded with the disgusting veggie casserole and wet rice--no one is eating too much of any of this--but it is dinner time. 

“Yeah,” Stiles says. He scratches his ear, “Uh, I know last you knew things were pretty tense and stuff, but we’re actually doing okay so we decided to make dinner.”

“Dinner,” Chris repeats.

“I was hungry,” Isaac says. 

“You were--” Chris looks him over and sighs, “Yes, I’m sure. I’m wondering if Malia and Beah might want to eat in the living room while we talk?”

Stiles is prepared for Malia to protest sexism, that she has the right to be at the table as much as anyone, but all their priority is Beah, so she nods tersely and picks up her and Beah’s plates. “Come on Bay Bay,” she says, “Let’s eat on the couch.”

“I want Grandpa to eat with me!” Beah cries. “Is there another Grandpa going to come?”

“No!” they all say all at once. 

“Fine!” Beah says and lets go of Chris’ legs, storming after Malia into the living room. 

Really, this is the most nonsense thing that has ever happened to them. Chris is eyeing the proxies like he’s trying to figure out what their DNA is made up of, and Stiles is torn between defending the proxies and telling Chris to get them as far away from them as possible by any means possible. 

It’s clear that Isaac is bonding with his proxy. Which in one way isn’t surprising because Isaac loves anyone who smokes with him, but in every other way is fucking shocking because one of Isaac’s biggest problems is that he can’t stand himself and his therapy binder is full of half done self-perception/self-love worksheets. If there was anything that Stiles was sure of about this situation, it would be that Isaac would hate any version of himself.

But Stiles apparently is the one who needs half done self-perception/self-love worksheets because he feels no connection with his proxy self. He’s intense and hyper focused and he’s a giant dick. It’s hard to look him in the face and while it seems like the Isaacs have connected over their shared experiences. The one thing that Stiles and Proxy Stiles almost share--the shooting in the sheriff’s station--Proxy Stiles shoved off like it was a casual experience. It made Stiles want to pin him to a wall and demand to find anything in common, just to prove that there’s nothing.

Still. No one has pulled a weapon in hours, and they’re getting along sort of okay for versions of themselves that came from another dimension. 

“Chris, we’re actually doing okay, just so you know,” Stiles says, “They’re kind of weird but--”

There’s a knock on the door. 

***************

 

Chris knows it’s Peter from the knock, but he isn’t 100% sure he wants JoJo in here, even if Stiles says they’re doing okay. Because the man with the scar stands like a soldier, like a man so used to war that the possibility of violence doesn’t startle him. He doesn’t understand how anyone could think he looks remotely like Stiles. The only thing that keeps Chris from immediately labeling him a threat is the way he keeps angling toward the other man, the way his face softens every time he catches his eye. In this one thing, he supposes, there are similarities.

Neither of them look particularly concerned about his presence, as if they, like his son and Stiles, have absolute confidence he’s going to fix things. And the man with the scar talks as if Chris shares some kind of knowledge he’s been keeping secret. Which, to be fair—

“Mr. Argent,” his son’s doppelganger says, “I know you probably don’t want them to know—“

“Oh my God, Isaac,” the man with the scar says, rolling his eyes, “We’re past it. We’re past that time. If I have to keep talking in circles I’m gonna need way more adderall and I don’t think this yahoo has any. Which, wow, talk about unfair. Are you gonna get the door?”

Chris raises his eyebrows at the deluge. “In a minute,” he replies. “But first why don’t you tell me who sent you.”

“Dude, I already told you. So can you please pop out the bestiary, get everyone up to speed, and get us the hell home?”

“I am not,” Chris says carefully, making sure to hold eye contact, “whoever you think I am.”

“Really. Really? You wanna bet? How about this? I bet you have…” the man with the scar looks him over and nods to himself, “at least three weapons on you right now. Gun. Knife. Probably a garrote. I’ll bet you have a flash bomb or two stuffed somewhere too.”

Chris holds himself very still as he peruses the room. Because he’s told his children things, and he’s gotten better at telling his children things, but there are parts of his life - his past life, he reminds himself - that he’d hoped they’d never need know.

“Yeah,” the man with the scar finishes with quietly satisfaction, “you’re exactly who I think you are.”

“Dad?” Isaac asks, his voice on the edge of bewildered. “Do you know what’s going on?”

The front door opens before Chris can answer, and Peter steps in. JoJo is in a carrier strapped to his back and his hand is in his pocket. He kicks the door closed with his foot and takes in the room in a single glance. “You didn’t answer the door. It’s rude.”

The words are barely out of his mouth before the man with the scar whirls around, pulls his son’s doppelganger behind him, and has a pair of Chinese ring daggers in his hands. All within the space of who seconds.

“What the fuck is he doing here? Where’s Victoria?”


	9. Chapter 9

_ Baby,  _ Isaac’s mind interjects through the panic,  _ baby baby baby baby baby.  _

 

The other Stiles has knives out and the other Isaac could turn into a werewolf any minute and there is a  _ baby in the room.  _

 

He dives for the carrier at Peter’s back, and Peter ducks his head to allow him to pick Josephine up out of the carrier, even as he starts talking. 

 

“My goodness. This is not the welcome I was expecting.” 

 

“Isaac,” Chris says, “Take her--”

 

“Got it,” Isaac says, cradling JoJo to his chest. He steps through the doorway into the living room and pulls the sliding door they never use shut behind him. Malia stands up when he comes in, her hand going to her jacket. 

 

“What’s happening?”   
  


“The other Stiles flipped. He’s mad at Peter, thought Victoria was coming or something. I don’t know. There’s k-n-i-v-e-s out.”

 

Malia nods. “Okay. We’re switching places. You’re babysitting now.”

 

“I don’t think we need more weapons,” Isaac says. 

 

“No offense, Isaac,” Malia says, stepping past him towards the doorway, “I kind of know what I’m doing.” 

 

“I can’t keep the babies safe,” Isaac says desperately, “If the k-n-i--if they come in here I can’t--you’re the one who is trained. You need to stay here..”

 

Malia looks at JoJo in his arms, and Beah picking at her veggie casserole on the floor. “You’re right,” she says. She reaches into her jacket and checks the safety, then holds her hands out for JoJo. Isaac hands her over.

 

“Can I stay in here with you?” he jokes. 

 

“Didn’t you beat up a bunch of people in high school?” Malia says bluntly. “Give yourself some credit.”

 

There’s yelling happening behind the sliding door, but Isaac still has enough presence of mind to be offended. He rolls his eyes. “Thank you so much for the reminder.” He opens the sliding door just enough to walk through and shuts it behind him.

 

Things have not gotten better since he left the room. 

 

The other Stiles--who looks nothing like Stiles right now--is standing with a curved knife in each hand, leaning towards Peter while risking glances back at the other Isaac. Peter hasn’t moved from the doorway, he’s standing with the carrier still on his back, watching what’s happening with an amused look on his face. 

 

Chris is standing in the middle of the room with his hands out like he’s holding everyone back with the power of his hands alone. Which he seems to be doing.

 

Stiles has his hands in the air and is yelling, “What the fuck what the actual fuck!”

 

“Shut up!” the other Stiles snaps, “When you said ‘we’ I assumed you meant Victoria not a  _ murderous psychopath.  _ Seriously what the fuck were you thinking why would you--”

 

The knives wave in Peter’s directions and Chris seems to decide that is  _ enough  _ because he steps forward in two strides and in what seems like three fluid motions takes the knives from the other Stiles’ hands. The knives clatter to the ground and Chris kicks them back towards the hall closet. 

 

The other Stiles reaches for his back and Chris grabs his wrist, “No,” he says, “We are not doing it this way.” 

 

The other Stiles fights Chris’s grip, but Chris is unwavering. “If your way means bringing  _ Peter Hale  _ along then we’re not doing it your way either. What the hell is wrong with you? Are you even Chris Argent?”

 

There’s a look in Chris’ eyes that Isaac has only seen shades of. Intense protectiveness but it’s turned up to 11, beyond what Isaac has ever seen. He looks like he could destroy anything in his path, and the other Stiles is in his path. 

 

“Dad,” Isaac says, “They’re us.” 

 

“We are  _ not  _ you,” the other Stiles says. “Where’s Victoria?” 

 

****************************

 

Isaac doesn’t have the same deep seated hatred of Peter Hale that Stiles does.  He dislikes him on principle, for Stiles’ sake, but by the time Isaac had been brought into Derek’s pack, Peter was  _ dead _ .  And the whole business of his resurrection is hazed in the confusion and terror and rage the majority of his time with Derek is hazed.  By the time Isaac is living with the Stilinskis and nominally safe, Peter is..comparatively…Loki levels of Villainous. From Thor: Ragnorok.  And he knows, even more than Stiles, that somehow Peter has aligned himself with Chris and Victoria - if not with Allison and the rest of Beacon Hills - within the last few years, so he’s not  _ totally _ surprised Chris would have him along.

 

The baby, though, that’s a whole new level of weird.

 

And he likes Chris Argent.  If pressed, he’s realizing now, he might even admit to an actual measure of familial love that he thought was only associated with Michael Stilinski. But right at this moment, Chris Argent is  _ fighting Stiles _ , and there are deep, primal parts of him with which that will never be okay.

 

He cracks his neck from side to side and shifts, then rolls his lips back to expose fang.

 

“Mr. Argent,” he says, and he can hear the guttural growl of the werewolf in the words, “I’m sorry, but I’m going to need you to take your hands off Stiles.”

 

And then he moves, faster than anyone can reach a weapon, and  _ gently, carefully, as delicately as possible _ , takes Chris’ hands off Stiles.

 

He thrusts Stiles behind him at the same time Peter yells, “Now might be the time for the  _ gun _ ,” but Isaac plants one hand on Chris’ chest and one hand on Stiles’ chest and shoves them apart.

 

“ _ Stop _ .” He growls.

 

“Holy, holy, holy shit,” Stiles 2.0 breathes.  “That was just a sneak peak earlier then, huh?”

 

Isaac ignores him, busy reminding his instinct side that murdering people isn’t actually the route they’re going today.  The look on Chris’ face makes it clear that, weapons or no, identical fighting style or no, this world’s Chris has absolutely no clue about the supernatural.

 

“Stiles, can we please stop fighting? I don’t want to fight Mr. Argent.”

 

Stiles isn’t done yet. “I don’t want to fight him, but he brought freakin’ Peter Hale.” Then he whips his head around to Isaac 2.0.  “You wanna know why our Derek Hale is a sociopath who preys on kids? Huh? He learned all that shit from his Uncle!”

 

Then Stiles holds up his hands in a universal symbol of surrender.  “But okay. I’m done. You’re right, babe. I overreacted. Sorry.”

 

“Mr. Argent?” Isaac moves his hand from Stiles’ chest to his face as he turns back to Chris. “If I shift back, do you promise to calm down?” Then, “Peter! I don’t want to hurt anyone!” Peter slowly takes his hand from his pocket, from which wafts the smell of iron and smoke.

 

Chris nods, never taking his eyes from Isaac and Stiles, and Isaac sighs.  “Okay. Okay. Good.” He drops his hand and feels his face reshape.

 

“Can you answer the question now?  Where’s Mrs. Argent?”

 

Chris eyes look so, so sad, and Isaac immediately knows, feels like somehow they’re about to hit one of those parallel almost but not quite points of diversion.

 

“My wife has been dead nearly a decade.”

 

********************************

 

The revelation stands in the air, somehow heavier than the fact that Proxy Isaac has just turned into a full on werewolf before their eyes. Seriously, hair just appears then disappears from his  _ face  _ and now he’s talking like he’s the one who is calm and in charge.

 

Stiles and Isaac have at least seen half of the show already, they already know that in this fucked up night they were having the proxy Isaac went fangy when he got riled up. But Chris and Peter are seeing it for the first time and they don’t seem totally shaken up by it. 

 

Which is weird. 

 

Or maybe it was just Chris and Peter.

 

Chris and Peter are weird. 

 

“I’m sorry,” Proxy Isaac says, like he hadn’t just become a primal creature. 

 

“It was a long time ago,” Chris says.

 

“Was it at the rave?” Proxy Isaac asks. 

 

“The rave,” Chris repeats, a question in his voice. “Is that code for something?”

 

“No,” Proxy Stiles cuts in, “In our world Mrs. Argent was almost bitten at a rave, but you--Mr. Argent--stopped it.”

 

“Bitten?” Peter asks, disgust in his voice.

 

“In our world,” Proxy Stiles says, like he is explaining something basic to a toddler, “Werewolves turn humans into werewolves by biting them. It should be a process you’re familiar with.”

 

“I assure you,” Peter says, “I bite no one without their consent.”

 

Ugh. Isaac catches his eye and makes a face, but Stiles is more focused on what that would sound like to their house guests. “Not a werewolf!” he says quickly, “He just has no boundaries! Peter’s not a werewolf, there are no werewolves in this world.” 

 

Everyone keeps freaking out all the time, but Stiles is watching and listening and he feels like he almost has it figured out. If they can just stop pulling sharp objects on each other or talking about their shared experiences--though admittedly he is curious enough to want to keep doing that--they can get to the bottom of what is going on. 

 

“Everyone listen to me, okay?” he says, “I know I don’t have sparkling eyes or a knife on me, but I think you’ll find that you’ll be glad that you gave me your attention.” 

 

“Stiles, if you need attention all you need to do is ask,” Peter says.

 

Stiles ignores the fuck out of that. 

 

“These two,” he says, pointing to the no longer wolfed out or knife wielding proxies “Are from a universe where there are supernatural creatures. Shock! Awe! I know. I know. But listen, we just saw the evidence didn't we? They don’t have a Beah--sad, but they  _ do  _ have a President Clinton which is deeply enviable. Okay? And they just showed up in poor Malia’s apartment who was trying to go to base! Now we need to get together and use your Chris brain and figure out what’s going on so we can all go home because me and Isaac forgot to record House Hunters!” 

 

Isaac groans, “We did forget to record House Hunters.”

 

“Oh by all means,” Peter says, “Go home, we will take care of these interlopers on our own.”

 

Chris seems to take in all the information but his focus has not moved off of the proxies. “Peter,” he says in a voice of warning with some weird fondness to it. Then, to the proxies he says, “Who is my wife to you?”

 

“Mrs. Argent is a hunter, like you,” Proxy Isaac says, then makes a face, looking back at Proxy Stiles, “Like our Mr. Argent.” 

 

Isaac waves his hand at the words, “I already told them you don’t hunt, it’s a different kind of hunter.” 

 

Chris nods. “So I am to believe, that none of this is prosthetics or technology, and you are from an alternate dimension?” 

 

****************************

 

“Ha.” Stiles says, “If only. Do you have that kind of tech? Is that what you thought this was? We are definitely from an alternative dimension.”

 

Stiles cradles Isaac’s hand against his cheek. The idea that Victoria Argent is dead and gone in this reality bothers him more than he’d like to admit. She’s always scared the shit out of him, but she - along with Melissa McCall - has been the matriarch of Beacon Hills for so long, shaping their peace and their war with one hand holding an olive branch and the other hand holding a butcher knife, that imagining the hole her absence would have left makes him feel kind of lost.  He turns his hand to Isaac’s palm and presses his lips to his lifeline.

 

“Okay, can we just...can we make a deal?” Other Stiles is cautiously edging toward other Isaac as he speaks and Stiles actually does feel just a teeny weeny bit guilty for scaring them.  But fucking  _ Peter Hale. _

 

_ “ _ Look, obviously in your world you know a lot of the same people we do. And it seems like some of them are pretty shitty individuals.  But can you trust that we would  _ not _ bring people like that anywhere near Beah? And stop freaking out when those faces pop up? None of the people in Beah’s life are horrid. Mainly.” He mutters the last word under his breath while cutting a glance to Peter.

 

“Fine, yeah, okay.  We can do that.” Then what other Stiles said catches up.  “Ha! I knew it! He’s bad here, too! Isn’t he?!” Stiles feels totally vindicated, even if the  _ bad _ clearly isn’t the same as the bad back home.

 

_ “ _ Potato, Po-tah-toe,” bizarro Peter Hale sings, then pushes off the doorframe.  “Are we done with the posturing? I’d like to retrieve Josephine. By the way, Christopher would have won that little scuffle.”

 

Stiles huffs his doubt as he bends down to retrieve his daggers. Isaac puts a hand on his arm. “You should wipe those down.  Just in case they get lost we don’t need fingerprints for the police to find. Honestly, we need to sterilize everything before we leave.”

 

Other Stiles, following at Peter’s heels, snorts.  “What are you, Gil Grissom?”

 

Stiles immediately feels defensive.  “Yeah, actually, he is.”

 

Other Isaac makes a choking sound.  “Wait, you’re a—“

 

Isaac shrugs.  “Forensic scientist? Yeah.”

 

“Holy shit,” other Isaac breathes. “Holy shit. Wow. Definitely not living up to my potential.”

 

By then Peter and other Stiles have returned, Malia, Beah, and unexplained baby in tow.  Said baby is in Peter’s arms, and he’s bouncing her up and down and rubbing her nose with his while speaking in a low, sing song voice. So. Fucking. Weird.

 

He wants to know more about what happened to Victoria, but then Peter’s monologue starts sinking in.

 

“...and then your father, like the competent badass he is, completely disarmed him.  And as you know, your baba has a total competence kink.”

 

Stiles freezes while Other Stiles hisses, “Can you  _ not? _ ”  

 

Stiles asks deliberately. “What is Peter Hale in this world? Why is he here?”

 

“Argent-Hale,” Peter corrects snootily.  “It’s Argent-Hale and I’d appreciate if you‘d get it right, you second rate knock off.”  He reaches Chris and lets him take the baby. Chris gives him a look that is at once both exasperated and fond.

 

Other Isaac just exchanges a glance with Malia and other Stiles before making a face.  “He’s married to Dad.”

 

****************************

 

“Ex _ cuse  _ me,” the other Stiles says, “Are you telling me there is a world in which Peter Hale and Mr. Argent are in  _ love _ ?”

 

“Argent-Hale,” Peter says cooly, “Don’t make me say it again.” 

 

“I know it’s weird,” Stiles says, “I frankly don’t get it either, Chris could do so much better. But the heart wants what the heart wants.”

 

Chris sighs. Isaac knows that Chris doesn’t love them constantly showing that they aren’t fans of Peter, especially in front of JoJo. He could imagine that if his family didn’t like Stiles he’d be pretty pissed if they made the same comments they made about Peter. Except Stiles isn’t a giant dick.

 

“Stiles,” Chris says, “I would appreciate a different tact of comment.”

 

Stiles gives him a thumbs up up, “Different tact on the way.” 

 

Okay he kind of is.

 

“When did this happen?” the other Isaac asks. “Were you--I mean Mrs. Argent? Was it before or--?”

 

“Before?” Stiles demands, “Does your Chris cheat on his wife?”

 

“Stiles,” Chris calms, “Different tact.”

 

The other Isaac looks taken aback, and he glances over at the other Stiles and shrugs, “Oh,” he says, “I mean, not that he would cheat on his wife. Just, you know. People have different situations.”

 

“What?” the other Stiles asks quietly, “What are you talking about?”

 

Chris looks around the room, and Isaac can imagine that he’s not thrilled that the focus is entirely on his personal life. Resigned he says, “I met Peter years after my wife died. We connected and have been together for years.”

 

“Yes,” Peter says, “Imagine. Me. A monster connecting with someone as wonderful as Christopher Argent-Hale.” 

 

“Aw, Peter,” Stiles says, “It is wild.”

 

“Stiles,” Isaac and Chris say at the same time. 

 

The other Stiles seems to have cooled somewhat, he still looks ready for a fight, but part of him is deflated, and Isaac hopes he’s realizing that Peter is actually an okay guy, and they’re not about to fucking draw down in the middle of Malia’s apartment with two babies in the room. 

 

“But Mr. Argent,” he says, “What happened to Mrs. Argent?”

 

Chris clears his throat. “I’m sure it’s immaterial. If you are truly from a different universe where my wife is alive, then that is the only reality that matters.”

 

Isaac glances over at Peter. His face twitches, but he maintains a calm facade. 

 

“But in this one,” the other Stiles presses, “what happened to her?” His voice is the softest it’s been since he showed up, ready to fight everyone at every turn. He’s looking straight at Chris, and Isaac can see in his eyes that he needs an answer.

 

Isaac knows this story, but he knows it from Allison’s perspective. He met the family only a few months after her death, and they’ve talked about her absence plenty, but the actual what happened he has only heard from Allison’s perspective. 

 

He’s not sure that it’s right that these people expect Chris to tell them. 

 

Chris stoically looks over the other Stiles, “This matters to you,” he says, in his calming Chris voice. “This personally matters.”

 

“I’d just like to know,” the other Stiles says, “Mrs. Argent is an important part of our community.”

 

Chris nods. “My wife,” he says, “had a terminal lymphoma that affected her brain. She faced the choice between losing control of her behavior, or leaving on her own terms. She chose to leave.” 

 

Something serious must have transpired in Chris’ gaze with the other Stiles for him to tell him that. The other Stiles nods grimly, and the other Isaac puts his hand on the back of his neck. 

 

“But she’s alive in your world,” Isaac says. 

 

“You had better not--” Chris says then stops and steels himself “--if this is an attempt at a psychological attack in order to, to gain intel or services, you will not get it.”

 

“It’s not,” the other Stiles says, “You know it’s not.” 

 

“They’re for real, Chris,” Isaac says, “You saw the other me, they’re from a crazy other world and we need to help them get back.” 

 

“And in your universe I’m some kind of hunter?” Chris asks.

 

The other Isaac nods, “You’re a supernatural hunter, but you don’t hunt everyone, just those that are harming those who can’t protect themselves.”

 

“Sounds like you,” Isaac says. 

 

Chris looks over at him, his face giving nothing away. 

 

“And  _ he _ ” the other Stiles says, gesturing to Peter, “is a werewolf.”

 

“Wonderful,” Peter says. 

 

“Isaac--the other Isaac--is one too,” Isaac adds, “That Stiles isn’t though.”

 

“Great,” the other Stiles, says, “We’re up to speed. Now would be a great time to reveal that one of you has some knowledge of the supernatural so we can get home.”

 

Peter steps forward and raises his hand. “I believe I can be of some assistance.” 

 


	10. Chapter 10

Chris feels absolutely raw, like his skin has been sandblasted for hours. It’s not just reliving Victoria’s death, which he tries not to do except in the dark, quiet hours of the night, but the censure and judgment over his relationship with Peter. Not only from these strangers, but from Stiles and Isaac, for all that Isaac had kept his mainly unspoken.

He gets it, he really does. Peter is not an easy person, and he does things, purposely, to aggravate the situation. But he also knows his children and their partners have no idea what actually makes up Peter Argent-Hale, any more than they truly understand all the things that make up Christopher Argent-Hale.

Right now, he is weary. But being weary isn’t what these children need, any of them. They expect and trust he can make things right, and so he will. Peter’s hand slips from his back, from where it has been resting since the man with the scar and sadness in his eyes had asked about Victoria’s death.

Peter knows instinctively when Chris needs to be put back together again.

“Really. You can ‘assist’ us with the supernatural.” 

Stiles’ flat answer belies his doubt, and Chris pats JoJo’s back as she lets out a hiccup and a snuffle and nestles into his chest.

“Really, Doubting Thomas. Now, you, second rate-”

“Peter,” Chris says quietly.

Peter looks back at him and sighs. “Fine. You, Stiles, who is not a werewolf and not a hunter, yet tried to fight my husband. Ahem. Anyhoo. In the previous phone conversation you mentioned a phurba.”

The man with the scar raises his eyebrows, as if surprised Peter remembers. “Yeah, it’s a—”

“A Tibetan exorcism dagger created from seven individual daggers. Designed to slice through all planes of reality.”

The silence is deafening as every person under the age of 30 stares wide eyed at Peter. Well, except for Josephine, who has fallen asleep on Chris’ chest, and Beah who is switching back and forth between using Isaac and his doppleganger as a jungle gym.

“Um…yeah,” The man with the scar finally says. 

“As someone who deals in antiquities—”

“Steals antiquities,” Stiles breaks in.

“—Stole antiquities,” Peter rejoins smoothly, “I have had occasion to run across any number of items purported to be supernatural. Christopher, don’t give me that look. I didn’t say I believed they actually worked or that I used them.”

Chris wants it noted for whatever record there might be, that he was, in fact, giving Peter no such look. At least externally.

“Much of what people try to pawn off are tawdry fakes. However, I happen to know the location of two phurbas I know for a fact are authentic. One is in a small museum in Tibet. I’m wanted there so that’s not an option.”

The man with the scar elbows his son’s doppelganger and hisses “See!”

“However, the other one was purchased by a private collector. I believe he has relocated to the east coast. I can make some phone calls. However, I can assure you he will be unwilling to sell. For any price.”

“Shit,” Stiles says, because apparently the rules about cursing around his granddaughter have gone out the window. Much like the rules about pot smoking, if his nose is to believed.

The men from North Carolina exchange glances. “So we steal it, right?”

******

“I should have known it would be Peter,” Stiles says under his breath to Isaac, while their other selves and Malia continue their hissy fit about committing a felony. Chris is letting them run themselves out without interruption; he and Peter are seated at the kitchen table speaking in low tones with their heads bent together and their child now securely in Peter’s carrier. Again, weird. “I’d forgotten he had the Hale histories. It’d make sense that here—”

Isaac nods. “Yeah. And it makes sense that he and Chris would—“

“No. Nope. Absolutely not.”

“I’m just saying that they have history.”

“Not in this place. And I don’t think their history back home even— Why are you so chill about this? And what was that question about a different situation?”

Isaac looks totally dodgy. “Nothing. I didn’t mean anything. Just you know he’s been—“

“I’ve been what?” 

Stiles jerks his head around so fast he thinks he might have whiplash because fucking Peter Hale has snuck up on him when he isn’t looking, with Chris Argent right behind him. Out of everyone so far, the two of them seem the most unchanged by time and space and it takes everything in him not to instinctively reach for a weapon.

Isaac shakes his head. “Nothing.”

“What am I? In your world? No, no, not the evil werewolf bit. That seems reasonable. What am I to Christopher?”

“Ah…” Stiles looks at Isaac and Isaac looks at Stiles, because that is some heavy shit and he’s not sure they ought to unpack generations of fucked up family history right here right now.

“It’s...complicated?”

“How?”

“There’s a lot of layers.”

“Peel them back for me, why don’t you.”

“Shouldn’t you be calling contacts?”

“Done. Playing the waiting game now.”

Isaac pipes up. “You’ve known each other for a really long time, I think. Before any of us were born.”

“And yet you married someone else, Christopher, I find this questionable.”

“Ah…” Isaac looks helplessly at Stiles, but he’s the one who opened his big mouth so he can figure it out.

“I don’t know the details. But if it makes you feel better, I think you guys are friends now?”

“They are not,” Stiles protests.

“Yes they are,” Isaac insists, like the wrong person he is. “They’re both friends with him! I think the whole mur—“

Isaac snaps his mouth shut.

Peter blinks and Chris looks consternated. Peter recovers first.

“I have a very large vocabulary and I can really only think of one or two words that start with those three letters and they all mean something bad. I’m going to need details, children.”

Isaac shakes his head because Stiles knows he probably wasn’t even supposed to tell him. On the other hand Stiles figures the Argents had to know he would. And it’s really like telling it to the people who did it if he looks at it from a certain angle. Besides, he’s never gotten to say it out loud and he kind of wants to.

“Okay, so. Look. I’m sure in this world he’s probably everyone’s favorite grandpa, and yay for that, but in our world Gerard Argent was—“

Chris interrupts and says bluntly, “—a sociopathic abuser.”

“Oh my God. Oh my God,” Stiles breathes happily. “Finally. So you should be happy to know Peter and Victoria totally killed him.”

******

As the men who appeared in Malia’s apartment cluster with Chris and Peter, the four of them finally have a moment of near privacy. They’re standing by the coat closet, Beah settled in Malia’s arms and the proxies in the kitchen talking to Peter and Chris. Before tonight they thought it was hard to find privacy in Malia’s apartment, but after the proxies leave and Peter and Chris go back to Chicago, her apartment will feel giant. A palace. The Taj Mahal. 

Malia takes Beah to the bedroom, mentioning grabbing her overnight bag. Stiles wants to eavesdrop on what they’re talking about but he also wants to take advantage of finally having a moment alone with Isaac. 

Isaac is watching the other four, with his hand on his forehead. Stiles reaches up and steals his hand, squeezing it in his.

“Hey husband,” he says.

Isaac turns to him and grins, “Hey husband.”

“You’re smiling and I don’t think you’re high anymore,” Stiles observes.

“Oh you know me,” Isaac says.

“Yeah, I do know you,” Stiles says, “I don’t think you smiled at me for the first three months we knew each other.” Isaac shrugs. “Are you doing okay? I mean really?”

“Yeah I’m stellar,” Isaac says sarcastically, “I was thinking tonight we would just make mini pizzas and watch TV--this is much better.” 

“For sure,” Stiles plays along, “I was really thinking, what would we be like if we lived in a world with werewolves and vampires and mummies.”

“No one said anything about vampires and mummies,” Isaac chides.

“Oh you’re right,” Stiles says, “That’s ridiculous.”

“You were being sensitive a second ago,” Isaac reminds him.

“Right,” Stiles says, “You good?”

Isaac makes a face. “I weirdly am? Like I’m glad my dad’s here now, you know, but this has been like some weird exercise. You know how I always think some fucking emergency is going to happen, and I’m going to lose you or Beah or, I don’t know, the house is going to explode?”

“Yeah?”

“I kind of feel it’s happening, but it’s okay.”

“The house isn’t exploding,” Stiles says, “We’re all safe, Beah’s safe, I’m safe. I’m so safe there’s two of me.” 

“No it’s okay,” Isaac insists, “We have the tools to deal with this. You know? I’m ready. Are you okay?”

Stiles reflects. His PTSD should be pinging off the walls, but in a way he gets what Isaac is saying. If you’re constantly expecting disaster, when disaster comes it’s just like ‘okay, yeah, it’s happening.’” He’s witnessed knives being pulled, Chris disarming someone and the sixteen year old in him wants to call Scott and make sure he’s okay but he can’t do that because he as a daughter and a husband and a Malia to watch out for now. It’s not just Scott and his dad. 

“I think so?” Stiles says. “It’s getting late. We’re going to have to figure out where they’re going to stay, because I don’t think we’re getting that dagger tonight.”

“No, Stiles,” Isaac insists. “Are you okay?” 

Shit. Called out. “I just want everything to go back to normal,” he says, voice betraying how exhausted he is, “I feel like as long as they’re here I’ll have my guard up.”

“They’re just scared, Stiles,” Isaac says, “Imagine if we went to their world.”

Stiles shivers. They were helpless, he already felt weak and useless in his world he couldn’t imagine how he would be in a supernatural world. Part of him admired Proxy Stiles for how strong he seemed to be, how hardy. Even if he didn’t see how they were the same person. 

“That would suck,” Stiles admits, “Maybe we shouldn’t send them back, maybe we should adopt them and keep them here and--”

“Stop joking around,” Malia cuts in, appearing with Beah in her arms, “We are righting this. I don’t care if it’s illegal, I don’t care if I get kicked out of the Air Force and you get kicked out of UT Austin and you get kicked out of--the farmers market?”

“The farmers market, that’s the worst thing that can happen to me,” Isaac says dully.

Malia ignores him. “We are getting that dagger, and we are setting things right.” 

Isaac cranes his head toward the kitchen where the Argent-Hales and the proxies are talking. “They’re talking about Chris’s dad,” he murmurs. 

Stiles looks over.

“You killed him?” Isaac asks loudly.

The proxies look over, “Peter and Victoria did,” Proxy Isaac says, sounding like he’s repeating it. 

The idea of Peter--even an alternate reality Peter--killing Chris’ dad fills Isaac with gratitude towards Peter, and he nods at Peter. Chris hadn’t told him much, not nearly as much as Isaac told him about Creek, but it was enough. Enough to make him deep down angry and harbor fantasies of catching Gerard in a grocery store parking lot, or alone on the street at night and destroying him for what he did to his dad. 

But Gerard died alone, hopefully painfully, in a nursing home that Chris paid for. It wasn’t fair. It seems like in their world, bad people die violent deaths and that’s good at least. 

“Good,” Isaac says.

“Yes,” Peter says, sitting up straight, “I would say that sounds about right.”

Chris isn’t looking at any of them. 

“What?” Stiles asks. Stiles who doesn’t know because he loves Stiles, he loves him more than he thought he could love anything before Stiles and Beah, but it’s none of his business. 

“Nothing,” Isaac says, which means ‘I’ll explain later’ which means ‘I won’t explain later but I’ll try to explain why I can’t explain later later.’

Chris clears his throat, and Peter puts his hand on his back and rubs. “I see,” Chris says, his voice as even as ever. 

Is he okay? Is Isaac allowed to ask him if he’s okay? Offer that Chris can leave if he needs to, if talking about his wife and now Gerard in one sitting makes him have to go to a shooting range? It’s Texas, there’s bound to be one spitting distance that’s still open. 

“Um,” he says, “what if we take a little break? Like Peter called his people, and that’s good but we can’t do anything until they call back. So what if we just like, chill for a minute.”

“Isaac--” Chris starts.

“Not that,” Isaac says, “We could like, I don’t know. Just not for a minute? Maybe go to the house or something?”

Beah wrestles herself out of Malia’s arms and runs over to the other Isaac. “Are you going to sleep in my daddieses bed?” 

“No!” five voices shout at once.


	11. Chapter 11

In response to her parents--and Isaac and Stiles, two strangers who look like them--shouting at her, Beah’s face crumples, then squinches up. Isaac feels panic bloom in his chest.  Beah grabs at his knees and he makes an abortive twitch to pick her up before freezing.

 

Then Peter kneels down beside Beah, and leans his head close to hers.  “Beah,” he asks solemnly, “will you ride with me to your daddies’? I want to get ice cream but I think Grandpa will be more likely to stop if you’re with us.”

 

Beah’s face smooths out and she nods before answering, just as seriously.  “Yes. I will help you.” Then she leans in even closer and whispers loudly, “But only because I love you.”

 

One corner of Peter’s mouth turns up.  “I love you too, Beah.” Then he sweeps her into his arms and stands, Beah on his front, and Josephine in the carrier on his back.  “Now, perhaps we can discuss arrangements for everyone.”

 

Stiles looks like he drank curdled milk.  Isaac wonders if he even knows their Peter has a child who died in the Hale fire.

 

Malia volunteers. “I can keep Beah and J.B. here. At least for one night. I can figure out an excuse for base if we need longer.”

 

“No,” Chris says faintly, “I want to keep JoJo with us.”

 

“ _ Daddies _ !” Beah yells.  The baby on Peter’s back stirs, then makes a hiccuping, half cry, then settles back to sleep.  Chris unstraps the carrier and takes her into his arms.

 

“Beah quite obviously wants her fathers,” Peter states. He looks very carefully at Chris, who is currently bouncing gently up and down, his nose in Josephine’s wispy hair.  “And I think we will be getting a hotel room.”

 

“Of course,” Stiles 2.0 scoffs. “Can’t have you slumming it on our sleeper sofa.”

 

Isaac narrows his eyes at Stiles 2.0, and when he accidentally catches his alt half’s gaze as he turns from his father to Stiles 2.0, he’s both surprised and unsurprised to see the same irritation.

 

Chris speaks up again, his voice hushed as he continues to cradle Josephine.  “I don’t want to leave Stiles and Isaac alone with them.” He shakes his head as both Stiles’ make a weird squawking sound and then glare at each other. “Just in case. Just in case something else came through. I’m sorry, I know you think we should trust you, and I know you think you can defend yourselves, but I won’t take that chance.”

 

“Don’t take it personally,” Isaac 2.0 offers.  “He still gets upset we give Uber drivers our address.  I don’t think his barber knew his first name for almost five years. It’s just a thing.”

 

“So we’re all gonna stay at the house.  Good. Grand. Great. Nothing like a big ole slumber party,” Stiles 2.0 mutters.

 

“I’m not,” Malia says flatly. “I have my own bed and I’m going to use it.  Have fun. But I’ll kill you if you get hurt. Just so you know.”

 

Malia is scary. And increasingly familiar. He just hasn’t figured out why. 

 

“We love you, too.” Stiles replies.

 

“You better.”

 

“So.” Peter brings the conversation back to its original point. “Beah will sleep with the two of you, I take it?”

 

“We’ll take the fold out,” Chris offers.  “We can keep an eye on the door.”

 

“No,” Peter says calmly but firmly. “We will be using a room with a door. If it makes you feel better we can take turns keeping watch. But we will have a door. If this means we take these two with us to a hotel and stuff them in an adjoining room, then so be it.”

 

Isaac doesn’t think Peter’s worried about intimacy issues, or at least intimacy issues that involve sex.

 

Beah twists around to look at Stiles. “But you’re not sleeping in my daddies’ bed?”

 

“Nope, kiddo. Daddies need privacy.”

 

“But sometimes mama sleeps with Papa while Daddy’s at work.”

 

“What the  _ fuck?” _ Really, Isaac didn’t mean to. It just slipped out! Honest.

 

“Bad word!” Beah points to the counter and a previously unnoticed glass jar. “Swear jar! Swear jar!”

 

Stiles ignores her, the curdled milk look back on his face as he glares at his other self while he edges closer to Isaac.  “No, but seriously, what the freak?”

 

************************

 

“That’s still a bad word,” Stiles says because he’s annoyed. He doesn’t need Proxies swearing in front of his daughter. That’s his job. “You get it, you were with Malia right? It’s nothing, it’s just being close to someone.”

 

Proxy Stiles is still making that terrible face, “We don’t have a her in our world.”

 

What the hell? “But she’s from Beacon Hills!”

 

“ _ He’s  _ from Beacon Hills,” Proxy Stiles says to prove a point, “And are you saying that she’s your  _ ex  _ and you still share a bed?”

 

“And you’re okay with it?” Proxy Isaac asks Isaac, sounding scandalized. Like really truly shaken to his core. 

 

Jesus Christ, Stiles didn’t show up in  _ their  _ lives and judge them. “Malia and I have a close platonic relationship, and sometimes she sleeps over. Okay? Jesus. Everyone is okay with it.”

 

“I’m okay with it,” Isaac pipes up. “He’s married to me, at the end of the day.”

 

There’s silence abounding in the room. Stiles looks around, trying to figure out why the proxies don’t have a witty comeback judging them for that but they’re just looking at them. Just  _ looking.  _

 

“You’re married?” Proxy Isaac asks.

 

Stiles waves his hand, showing off the wooden ring on his finger. “Three years.” 

 

“Three years?” Proxy Isaac repeats. 

 

“You’re not married I take it,” Stiles says, “Just another place our universes diverge I guess.”

 

“I guess,” Proxy Isaac says. Proxy Stiles steps up to him and curls a hand around the back of his neck. 

 

“Anyway,” Isaac says. Isaac is standing a few feet away from him, fiddling with the wooden ring on his finger, “Uh yeah, so Malia you’re staying here?”

 

Malia stretches, “I wasn’t planning on being alone, so it’ll be nice. Not that I won’t miss you Bay Bay.” 

 

“I’m going to Daddies’ house,” Beah said decisively, “It’s the schedule.”

 

Malia smiles. “It is the schedule.” 

 

“So we are,” Peter says, “having a sleepover at your house? Boys, I have been to your house I am not sure you are equipped.” 

 

“We don’t have enough food,” Isaac says panicked, “We don’t have crackers or popcorn or anything. All our bagels are frozen.”

 

Stiles turns to his husband, “We have enough food to feed an army, you went to WalMart to prepare for the Beah weeks. It’s okay. We’re going to be fine. We can thaw the bagels.”

 

“I meant sleeping arrangements,” Peter says, “I would not suggest that any house you two live in does not have enough food.”

 

“Oh,” Isaac says, deflating somewhat, “Oh okay. No we’re fine. I mean, Beah’s old crib in is the garage, and Malia’s bed is still in Beah’s room from when she lived with us, and the couch pulls out. Peter and Chris and Josephine can take Beah’s room, and the others can sleep in the living room.” 

 

“Wonderful,” Peter says, “I look forward to sleeping in Princess Beah’s room.”

 

“I am a princess,” Beah agrees, “Is Uncle Peter going to sleep in my bed while I sleep with Daddy and Papa?”

 

“If you like,” Peter says indulgently.

 

Beah claps, “Yes, yes! We go home right now!” 

 

It’s way past Beah’s bedtime so she’s being a total champ. She hugs Peter’s legs and runs over to Isaac and grabs at the hem of his shirt. “I’m going in Grandpa's car, okay?”

 

Isaac laughs and takes her hand. “Okay. So the others are coming in our car? We can go to WalMart on the way.”

 

“Wait,” Proxy Isaac says, “We can’t appear on camera, it has to be like we were never here.”

 

“That’s pretty much impossible,” Stiles says, “The average American appears on cameras like a thousand times a day.” Not that it’s something that sets his paranoia on edge or anything. But Proxy Isaac is right, they should be discrete. His psychologist would have some opinions on him being exposed to his worst fears right now. 

 

“No WalMart,” Chris agrees, “If you give me a list, we can go in the morning.”

 

“We might not have enough pillows,” Isaac says, clear anxiety in his voice. Stiles reaches back and squeezes his hand. Isaac has a hard time having people over at the house in the best of circumstances. He frets about the way their house smells, the possibility of their phone ringing too loud, or any number of things that Stiles tries to reassure him aren’t a big deal. Having his father and Peter plus two interlopers stay over at the house with no notice is one of his biggest fears. 

 

Malia knows it too. “I’ll give you all my pillows,” she says, “You’ll be great hosts.”

 

“Awesome,” Proxy Stiles says sarcastically, “Can’t wait to see the pullout. 

 

It was a home day for Isaac until the date. He spent the day making macarons that are on every surface of the kitchen, then spent the cooling time cleaning up the living room and Beah’s room and their room and the bathroom and getting Beah’s stuff out of the backyard and he only stopped because Stiles came home and made him take a shower and sit on the couch for a minute before they went on their date.

 

“You know no one is coming over right?” Stiles had said, “It’s just your husband and your child who do not care if the couch isn’t vacuumed?”

 

He remembers that just as they pull into the driveway. “Ha,” he crowed, “We totally are having people over.”

 

“Is this it?” the other Isaac asks. 

 

Their house looks small on the outside because it’s small on the inside. The other Isaac is a fucking forensic scientist and god knows what the other Stiles is, but their house is probably way bigger than theirs, in some fancy city with their fancy supernatural friends. 

 

“Listen, I know it’s not a palace, but we like it and there’s enough room for all of us so deal,” Stiles says defensively.

 

The other Stiles barks out a laugh. “You think we’re unimpressed? We live in a little cabin in the woods. This is nice.”

 

“Oh,” Stiles says, a hole poked in his angry balloon,  “Well thank you.” 

 

Chris and Peter are a few minutes behind them; after some convincing Chris agreed to separate, assured that it would only take a few extra minutes to get Beah’s carseat in the rental car. 

 

“We have to be careful,” the other Isaac says, “Someone might see us.”

 

“We have the cover of night,” Stiles says dramatically, “Also no one in this neighborhood pays attention to us.”

 

Still, the others walk quickly with their heads down, scanning their crowded neighborhood with the fenced in yards. Stiles must notice that too, because he quickly unlocks the door and lets them in first. Which is crazy of him to do--what if they go inside and lock them out?

 

They don’t though, they just wait in the living room while Isaac and Stiles come in. Stiles does one of the deadbolts, leaving the rest because Chris and Peter and the girls are soon behind. 

 

Their living room has a tile floor covered in half a dozen garage sale rugs because they’re both terrified Beah is going to run and fall and hit her head. They have a navy blue couch and armchair set that Chris gave them as a move in gift and is by far the nicest furniture in their house. The bookshelves are all from garage sales and filled with psych texts and history books that they found at book sales on campus. There’s pictures on the shelves that the other Isaac swifty walks towards. He picks one up of the family at their wedding and puts it down, looking back at the other Stiles.  

 

“Okay this is it,” Stiles says, “This is the house that muffins and grading papers built.” 

 

“Muffins?” the other Isaac asks. 

 

Isaac glares at Stiles and Stiles throws his hands up, “What? You are kick ass at muffins. They’re your signature piece.” 

 

He was hoping they could go through this whole ordeal without anyone ever finding out he was a baker. Granted having roughly a thousand macarons in the kitchen may throw a wrench in that, but maybe no one would want to go to the kitchen. 

 

Chris never really pushed him about it, but he knows he wanted him to go to college. He understood why he dropped out of high school--which the other Isaac clearly didn’t do--but the deal was that he go to community college. Which he did. Then he dropped out. And became a baker. Like a loser. 

 

“You make muffins?” the other Isaac asks, looking at him. 

 

Except Stiles doesn’t think so. He beams and runs to the kitchen, leaving Isaac standing alone in the living room with the others, awkwardly looking for something wrong with the living room that he would notice. Stiles comes back with a plate of macarons and Isaac groans in annoyance.

 

“They’re best if you let them rest for 24 hours,” he says.

 

“Hush hush,” Stiles says, “Isaac makes these because he’s a professional baker. He’s amazing. Look, eat them. They’re not poisoned. Proxy Isaac, do your lying scan and verify that they’re not poisoned.”

 

Isaac is about to die. He is going to die right here of embarrassment.  

 

“He’s not lying,” the other Isaac says, sounding a little amused. He and the other Stiles reach for the macarons and Isaac momentarily becomes convinced that he fucked up the recipe and they’re going to be awful. Especially when the others’ eyes go wide like something is wrong. 

 

“Holy shit,” the other Stiles says. 

 

“These are amazing,” the other Isaac says, “You made this yourself?”

 

“Yeah,” Isaac says, playing with his ring. “They’re not that hard.”

 

“That’s  _ incredible.  _ I can’t do anything like this.” 

 

“But you can like, solve crimes and help people.”

 

“But I can’t do  _ this.”  _ The other Isaac reaches for another macaron. “Seriously. You are so cool. This is incredible.”

 

Isaac feels his face heat. Being praised by an alternate reality version of himself doesn’t make it easier to accept praise, especially when he still feels like a total loser compared to him. “Thanks,” he forces himself to say because it would make his Austin therapist happy. 

 

He hears a car pull into the driveway and steps coming up the pathway. “They’re here,” he says, and opens the door. 

 

************************

 

Chris sits in the driver’s seat and stares at Isaac and Stiles’ disappearing headlights as Peter finishes strapping JoJo in.  Beah is sitting next to her, holding her fingers as she kicks her legs happily back and forth.

 

Things had gone well, all things considered.  The ERI isn’t after him and his son isn't in imminent danger.  Just werewolves and alternative dimensions and  _ Christ _ how had he been so ignorant? He’s going to have to go through Peter’s contacts and his own. One of them has to have more information on how he can protect his family better.

 

His son’s doppelgänger had thrown him off as if he were nothing. Either of his children could have run into something like that in the streets.  What if JoJo—

 

Peter’s hand lands warm and steady on the back of his neck. “Breathe, Christopher.”

 

“I’m fine,” he says, staring at the small scar on his thumb from the time his father had left him trapped in a sinkhole as punishment for his carelessness.  

 

“Yes, I’m sure you are. You just found out there’s a parallel world where your father was murdered and your wife was still alive.  Now breathe.”

 

“Don’t act like that doesn’t upset you.” Peter, when he thinks no one is looking, has a possessive streak a mile wide. Chris himself feels slightly ill knowing there’s a world where Victoria is alive but he’s somehow still dealing with Peter. He can’t imagine that going well.

 

“Of course it does.” Peter answers honestly. “But this isn’t about me right now. And if she helped me get rid of that blight on humanity, I can’t very well resent that.  Now breathe and you can assure me of your passionate devotion at a later date.”

 

He will, too, but right now he doesn’t have time to breathe, time to take a break, time to selfishly fall apart.  “They’re getting ahead of us. I told Isaac we would be just behind—“

 

“They are fine.  Those two aren’t going to hurt anyone unless they think the other is in danger.  You saw that. Besides, we have to get Beah her ice cream, don’t we, darling?”

 

“Ice cream, Ice cream,” Beah chants, banging her fists against the sides of her carseat.

 

“See?” Peter says archly, “So close your eyes, Christopher Argent-Hale, and  _ breathe _ .”

 

Chris obediently lets his eyelids fall shut and his head drop forward, and takes in a deep, steady breath.  He concentrates on the warmth of Peter’s hand and nothing else, and lets the breath out. Then breathes in. Then breathes out. Repeats.

 

Peter rubs his thumbs along the back of his ear and Chris feels his heart rate slow and steady.

 

“There you go,” Peter says softly.

 

“Is Grandpa okay?” Beah asks.  “Does he need ice cream?”

 

Chris opens his eyes and smiles at her in the rear view mirror, then pulls Peter’s hand to his mouth and kisses his palm before relinquishing it.  “Grandpa is just fine, Beah. But I think I really do need ice cream.”

 

“Go, go, go, Grandpa!  I want two scoops and a waffle cone and Uncle Peter wants chocolate with brown chunks in it!  Do you want the green one?”

 

“I do, Bay Bay,” he agrees, as he pulls out onto the road.

 

“I know. I know everyone’s favorite.  Daddy is Papa’s favorite and Uncle Peter is your favorite.  No one else is your favorite, right?”

 

He wonders how much of the conversation in Malia’s apartment she had understood.  “Peter is my favorite. Right after lime sherbet.”

 

“Good. Who is G’rard? Is he another grandpa?”

 

He supposes that answers his question. He looks helplessly at Peter because he’s talked about Gerard as much as he cares to for the next millennia, at least outside of therapy sessions.

 

“I’ve got this, Christopher.  Just get us to the ice cream. Beah, Gerard is not another grandpa.  Do you remember when we watched Tangled together?”

 

“Yes!   You bought me a stuffed Pascal!”

 

“Yes I did.  Do you remember Mother Gothel?”

 

Beah nods enthusiastically.

 

“Good. Gerard is Mother Gothel.”

 

Beah is silent after that, all the way up to the moment they pull into the drive thru. Chris gives a silent apology to the rental car employee who will have to clean ice cream out of the upholstery.

 

“Uncle Peter? Does that mean Grandpa is Rapunzel and you’re Eugene?”

 


	12. Chapter 12

Chris comes in the door first.  He has Beah in his arms. Her eyes are closed and her mouth is open and there’s ice cream smeared all over her face.  “She fell asleep on the ride over. Do you want to wake her up to brush her teeth?”

 

Stiles 2.0 rolls his eyes.  “No, no I don’t. Here, let me take her.” He extracts her from Chris’ grip and disappears through a door right as Peter walks in, a car seat carrier in one hand and a duffle in another.  

 

Josephine is still awake, staring around with wide, dark brown eyes, but seemingly perfectly content.  He unbuckles her and walks over to Isaac 2.0 and unceremoniously hands her to him. “You’re momentarily in charge.”

 

Without another word he catches Chris’ eye, jerks his head toward a second door, and within seconds they’ve similarly disappeared.

 

Stiles watches after them with narrowed eyes then turns to Isaac. “Are you gonna be okay if I— Dude, where is your bathroom?” He directs the last part to the other Isaac.

 

“Did you really just ask if I could survive being alone while you pissed?”

 

Stiles has the grace to look slightly ashamed but then shrugs. “It’s a weird time, okay?”

 

Isaac forgives him, mainly because he’d rather focus on eating more macaroons.  He is stupid impressed with his other self and upset it was yet another talent Isaac 2.0 had that he didn’t get.

 

“Through the hall,” Isaac 2.0 says.

 

Stiles lingers for another minute until Isaac gives him a _look_ , and then he, too is gone.

 

Isaac looks at his other self and at the careful and confident way he cradles Josephine. His other self looks back.

 

There are several awkward seconds of silence and then Isaac 2.0 asks, like he’s picking up a conversation, “Why aren’t you guys married?”

 

“Um...I guess we never thought about it?”  He really hadn’t, not right until the moment he saw the rings on the hands of their other selves and suddenly, unexpected, desperately _wanted._

 

“It’s been ten years.  That seems...weird.”

 

“Not...not really?”  He doesn’t know how to put it into words that won’t sound strange. It’s strange even in their own world he knows.  “We just didn’t feel the need to. We just...we’ve been more or less married since we were sixteen, you know? I guess we didn’t think about the formality.”

 

*****************

 

Isaac takes a minute before responding. He stalls by shifting JoJo on his chest and checking in with her. She's still a baby. She is still doing okay.

 

“It wasn't a formality,” he says, fighting to keep the judgement out of his voice. “Have you ever tried getting parental rights of a kid? In Texas. As a queer unrelated couple. We're basically the first ones to do it. We wanted to get married someday, but when Beah was born it was clear that we had to do it soon to have a chance to be taken seriously.”

 

The other Isaac stares at Josephine in his arms. “So you got married for Beah?”

 

“Yes? No? It wasn't just Beah, not that she's a 'just.’ We didn't have the same thing you guys did. We dated for a while, then we fell in love _._ I seems like you guys fell in love right away.”

 

The other Isaac turns the half eaten macaron in his hand and chews. Isaac knows enough to know when someone is mulling over what to say so he politely plays with Josephine’s hand while the other Isaac works up to it.

 

“It wasn’t that simple at first,” the other Isaac says, “Derek--it was complicated.”

 

“Yeah, but you basically fell in love once you figured it out right?” Isaac says. He bounces Josephine in his arms.

 

“There was a lot working against us. But we--we connected however we could. I used to hide in his backyard, and he would read out loud in his bedroom window.”

 

Isaac can tell from the way he says it it’s a complicated memory. It sounds fucking complicated. If Isaac ever hid in Stiles’ backyard he would call the police--at least before they were in a relationship, anyway.

 

“And that was like, a good thing?”

 

The other Isaac shrugs. He starts to say something, but Isaac changes the subject. He’s not sure he can take another revelation at this hour. “Don’t you need to be married in case Stiles ends up in the emergency room or something?”

 

The other Isaac’s face shifts from confused to angry and back to confused. “Why would Stiles be in the emergency room?”

 

“Because of his--” Isaac starts, but stops. If the other Stiles experienced psychosis the way Stiles did, then it would just be a reality of their life that they had to prepare for. “Because your world is really dangerous,” he finishes.

 

The other Isaac shakes his head, “No, we can take care of each other. We don’t need to do that.”

 

What did that mean? “Okay,” Isaac says, “So you’re not married.”

 

There’s another beat of awkward silence, that the other Isaac breaks when he asks, “So did you change your name to Stilinski?”

 

Fuck. This question.

 

“No,” he says, dodging JoJo’s hand when she reaches for his ear. “No, I’m still Lahey.”

 

 _“Why?”_ the other Isaac asks, exhaling hard with the question.

 

It’s not an old question. Stiles never really pried; he offered that they could hyphenate their names or they could take each others names. Isaac flat out rejected _Stiles_ taking his name--this name was dying with him--but he didn’t want to take Stiles’ name either.

  
“You don’t want people to think you’re Polish huh?” Stiles had said, “You really have a problem, you should examine that in your soul.”

 

“I just don’t want to give up my name,” he said.

 

“And you don’t want me to have it,” Stiles said.

 

“Right,” Isaac had said, and Stiles almost left it at that. He asked a few more times before the wedding date, but the day came and all that they had decided was that they were keeping their own names. Beah’s last name was Tate, and that wasn’t changing, and families didn’t have to share the same last name.

 

His Austin therapist pried a lot more.

 

“I don’t know,” Isaac says, “Have you thought about it? What would you do if you got married?”

 

“I’d take Stiles’ name,” the other Isaac says immediately, “Why wouldn’t I? Stiles actually likes his name and it’s Dad’s name too.”

 

Isaac fights down the cold adrenaline he feels hearing his father referenced, and it’s only a few seconds before he’s in control enough to realize what the other Isaac has said. “Wait, who is your dad?”

 

“Mike Stilinski,” Isaac says.

 

“ _Mike?”_ Isaac repeats. “Are you talking about Stiles’ dad? His name is Noah.”

 

“Noah Michael Stilinski, has gone by Mike since he was a kid,” the other Isaac explains, “He goes by Noah here?”

 

“Yeah, I didn’t even know his middle name was Michael.”

 

They stare at each other. “Weird.” Isaac finally says, “So Stilinski, you wouldn’t just be taking your husband’s name, it’d be your family’s name too?”

 

“Yeah,” Isaac says. “I lived with them after--after. He’s my dad, more than Creek ever was.”

 

He’s glad. He’s so fucking glad that this Isaac isn’t alone. The months he spent without Chris after his dad’s death he felt permanently ruined. He was resigned to the fact that no one would ever love him and he would never belong anywhere. He didn’t want that for the other Isaac.

 

“So he takes care of you and stuff?” Isaac asks, “Or he did when you were a kid?”

 

The other Isaac nods enthusiastically. “He treats me like I’m his son. He calls me that, so I call him my dad. You know what it’s like, I saw you with Mr. Argent.” Then, “Wait, why isn’t your name Argent? He actually adopted you, didn’t he?”

 

He lets out a sound of frustration. He’s explained this to so many people and he doesn’t want to explain it to himself.  Why does it have to be so strange that he wants to keep the name was born with? There are thousands of logistical reasons to keep it. And he wanted to. That should be enough.

 

“My middle name is Argent,” he hedges.

 

“Did you get rid of--”

 

“Yeah.”

 

The other Isaac puts down the macaron plate. “I still don’t get why you would keep his name.”

 

Isaac is aware that behind his back is the framed photo of his seventh birthday, with his mother pointing at the camera, trying to get his attention away from staring up at Camden. His father took the photo. It was one of the only photos that he and Chris found when they packed up the house.

 

“It was their name too.”

 

 

In their bedroom, finally alone with his sleeping daughter, Stiles feels all that has happened hit him all at once.

 

There is a world with supernatural creatures. A world where Isaac is one of them. No, scratch that, addendum, _their_ world has magical artifacts. Did they have werewolves? Did they have--

 

Did they have mirrors that talked back?

 

Stiles eyes the mirror in the corner of their room with one of Isaac’s tablecloths thrown over it. On the bed Beah rolls over, no doubt getting ice cream all over their jersey cotton sheets. He smiles fondly at her--the bright spot in all this is that she’s handling it _so well--_ they are totally taking her to the next fair in the region.

 

He opens their dresser drawer and pulls out his medication bottles. Part of him--a weird part that doubts everything at all times no matter what medication cocktail he’s on--doubts that this is really happening. There’s an abundance of evidence that it is--the fact that the proxies could touch and eat Isaac’s macarons, the fact that everyone else saw them, the fact that Chris and Peter and Isaac and Malia saw it all too.

 

Still. He’s afraid.

 

He shakes pills out into his hand and downs them without water. Because he’s been swallowing pills every day since he was sixteen. He can do it upside down and backwards now.

 

He wonders if Proxy Stiles is on Risperdal or Abilify, or if they eschew antipsychotics when the entire world is psychotic.

 

He can’t even tell his Dr. Tan about this, not without looking at the serious possibility of an involuntary commitment. He wanted to be alone with Isaac so they could _talk_ and just fucking calm down a little bit and eat bagels and maybe get on the closest train.

 

It seemed like they had a long road ahead of them, and Stiles still isn't exactly clear on how they would use that crazy dagger to dagger the proxies back to their world. But it needs to work. Their lives are held together by duct tape and glue but it’s _their life_ and they deserve to have it back in limping order.

 

He digs in their closet for Beah’s extra night light and plugs it in before going back to the living room. In the hall outside their bedroom he runs into Proxy Stiles, coming out of the bathroom.

 

“Oh right,” he says, “I guess none of us have pee’d in a while.”

 

“Just,” Proxy Stiles raises a hand, “don’t talk about my bodily functions, yeah?”

 

“Hey in another life they’re my bodily functions,” Stiles jokes.

 

“Your soap,” Proxy Stiles says, ignoring him, “is very nice.”

 

Stiles perks up, “Oh yeah, Isaac trades muffins with another vendor for it. It’s made with goats milk.”

 

Proxy Stiles nods.

 

Stiles clears his throat. “Listen, do you guys need anything?”  

 

*****************

 

“Like...I don’t know, a triple dose of Aderall?  I bet you don’t even need it do you, Mr. I Have a Baby and a Nice House?”

 

Stiles is...okay, he actually doesn’t need an extra dose of Aderall.  His Aderall is working fine. He took it that morning. But he sure as shit is gonna need some tomorrow, and they sure as shit aren’t getting back home to his medicine cabinet today.  And honestly, look, he’s not a saint. He’ll abuse his medication right this fucking second if it would chill him the fuck out, now that he knows these other thems and the other Peter aren’t any more of a threat than the other 90% of people they know that have actually _tried_ to kill them in the past.

 

Jesus fucking Christ, when he actually untangles that he can see how these alternative versions are a little freaked out too.

 

Other Stiles shakes his head.  “I wish. I just refilled so you can grab some in the morning.  I’ll figure out something to tell my doctor to get another prescription to fill the gap.”

 

“Oh thank fuck,” Stiles breathes.  “There was a computer error the first time I needed a refill in Saluda, and I am not joking, I seriously thought about asking my students where I could score some on campus.”

 

The Other Stiles looks toward the main living area, where quiet Isaac voices - times two - are filtering through, and then back toward the door where he and his Isaac presumably sleep.  “You...teach?”

 

“Oh, yeah, I thought I mentioned that?  At UNC Asheville. Cultural studies. Specializing in world mythologies.  I’m starting my PhD next fall. I make shit. Isaac is my sugar daddy. Expect you know, I actually really, really enjoying fuck—“

 

“You sure you don’t need an Aderall right now?”  

 

Stiles really doesn’t get how a human being can be so uptight about sex.  He feels sad for Other Isaac.

 

“Dude.  It’s sex.  You think Chris and Peter aren’t boning the shit out of each other right now?”  Ew. Gross. He can’t believe those words actually came out of his mouth.

 

“Ew. Gross. I can’t believe those words actually came out of your mouth.  And actually, Chris is super private. _Super_.  I mean, other than that one time Isaac walked in on…” He trails off and makes a face. “Anyway.  So, I guess that’s the thing.”

 

“What’s what thing?”

 

Other Stiles looks uncomfortable and he looks again toward the kitchen and the voices.

 

“Dude. They’re fine.  They’re like...bonding and shit. It’s weird.  It’s weird, right?”

 

“Yes, Christ.  So weird. I mean they did smoke pot together but self love isn’t actually high on Isaac’s list.”

 

Stiles snorts.  “Yeah, not my Isaac either.  But he’s gotten way better. Jesus fuck if I could go back in time and _kill—“_ He cuts off abruptly with the realization this universe’s Stiles just won’t get it.  “Just so you know, it’s not like everyone in our world knows about the supernatural. It’s still all secret and shit. Except maybe in Saluda.” He’s starting to have serious suspicions about Saluda.  “I’m guessing it’s pretty much like the supernatural here.

 

“Christ, don’t say that.  Especially around Chris. He’s probably gonna make us start salting our doors or something. That man has serious paranoia.  Did you he’d taught his kids to be so tight lipped neither Scott nor I even _knew_ Allison and Isaac were siblings?  For like five months. Like neither of them gave us enough information to realize Isaac’s ex and Allison’s pothead brother were _them_.”

 

“Wait.   _Wait._ ” Stiles leans back against the bathroom door.  “So Allison and Scott are together. Good good. Same for us.  But did you just refer to Allison as Isaac’s _ex.”_

 

“Uh yeah.  How do you think Chris actually met him?”

 

Stiles has a very boisterous internal debate but finally settles on, “Oh. Okay.  Sure. Um...what was the in common thing? You never said.”

 

“I’m a--well I’m not a professor, but I’m a TA, I teach college classes too.  I’m getting my PhD. It’s kind of a specific niche, but psychology is the broad category.”

 

“Dude. Nerdy academics unite!”  He holds out his fist and after a long, long, totally awkward moment Other Stiles fist bumps him back.

 

Other Stiles opens his mouth, then closes it, then takes a deep breath and opens it again.

 

“Spit it out, dude.  I helped set your stepfather-in-law on fire.  We’re past weird.”

 

“I’m sorry you did wha— You know what?  We have a lot of time. Let’s shelf that.  I, um...I have Risperdal, too, if you need it.”

 

Stiles blinks. Then blinks again.  “Why would I need an antipsychotic?”

 

Other Stiles’ mouth pinches together and he crosses his arms.  “How do you know what it is if you don’t take them?”

 

“Non-answer much? Whatever.  I know because my mom took them before—“ He clears his throat because time hasn’t made it all that much easier.  “Before she died.”

 

“Oh,” Stiles says.

 

*****************

 

Because _Oh._

 

Because yeah he remembers knowing that his mom was on it--part of why he was prescribed it in the first place was that it seemed to help his mom--but he hadn’t thought about it in years. Risperdal was his medication now.

 

“Did she not--” Proxy Stiles starts. Stiles cuts him off.

 

“No,” he says, “No she did. It was--?”

 

“Frontotemporal dementia,”  Proxy Stiles says, “Yeah.”

 

“Yeah,” Stiles says, “Sucked, right?”

 

“Yeah,” Proxy Stiles says, “It was really hard.”

 

“I know,” he says.

 

He had a therapist once who wasn’t that great, but was fixated on the idea that Stiles blamed himself for his mother's death. “What would you say if someone else had these experiences, would you blame them?”

 

He doesn’t blame Proxy Stiles. For a moment he thinks about telling Proxy Stiles about the therapist, but he shakes the idea out of his head. Proxy Stiles maybe didn’t blame himself. He seems stronger than Stiles, tougher. Maybe that was never an issue.

 

Instead he says, “So I do--my research is actually in increasing mental health wellness in people with dementia. Not just functioning, but feeling good. In general. I don’t know. It’s developing.”

 

“Because of Mom?” Proxy Stiles asks in a hushed voice.

 

Stiles feels chills on his arms. He has to look away from Proxy Stiles’ face. “Yeah,” he says, “You know and it’s important. Everyone deserves good mental health.”

 

“Dude, that’s awesome.”

 

Stiles forces himself to grin. “Yeah, I’ll tell my advisor you said so. Actually I won’t, that would go terribly. She might call my doctor.”

 

As soon as he says it he realizes any chance that he hadn’t given himself away is gone. Proxy Stiles crosses and uncrosses his arms and clears his throat. “So you have risperdal?” he asks, voice wavering a bit.

 

“Yeah,” Stiles admits, “I do. I--I don’t know what you take or don’t but--” he realizes what Proxy Stiles may be assuming and his eyes widen, “No, no, no, no,” he says. “I don’t have it. I don’t have frontotemporal dementia.”

 

Proxy Stiles sighs, “You’re sure?”

 

“I’m sure,” Stiles says, “Like, for sure for sure for sure. I get brain scans every year and they’re always in tip top shape. Well, not tippity told shape to be honest.”

 

“Because you have risperdal,” Stiles says.

 

“You don’t miss a beat do you. I do have risperdal. I’m guessing you don’t experience...psychotic episodes?”

 

So far Proxy Stiles hasn’t proven himself to be the least judgemental person on the planet. Which, to be fair, Stiles isn’t either. And it’s becoming clear that they _do_ have things in common. The stigma for psychotic disorders is pretty fucking terrible. As soon as you disclose people think you’re insane or dangerous or bad and Stiles just fucking hopes that Proxy Stiles doesn’t freak out too bad and run out of the house.

 

Proxy Stiles just shakes his head. “No,” he says, “but you do?”

 

“Yeah,” Stiles says casually, “Just you know, every once in a while I think there’s a dark energy possessing me, or the mirror is talking or--”

 

“A dark energy?” Proxy Stiles cuts in. “Wait say more about that?”

 

Stiles leans back and riffs, “Uhhhhh, like for real?”

 

“Yeah for real. When did that happen?”

 

“Um, mainly when I was seventeen? Like Fall of junior year I had a breakdown where thought I’d been possessed and had killed three people. But I hadn’t. I like, got on meds and was like ‘ _oh psych I’m not a murder’_ and that was that.”

 

Proxy Stiles is staring at him intently. “I think we had something happen. Fall of junior year I was possessed by trickster spirit called a nogitsune.”

 

What the fuck. “Wait, seriously?”

 

“Yeah,” Proxy Stiles says, “But like, Isaac figured it out within a few days and it was over.”

 

Stiles can’t help but laugh, “That was it?”

 

“Well it wasn’t _fun”_ Proxy Stiles says.  

 

“Not that it’s a contest, but if we’re saying that’s the same thing I think I came out a little worse. I was in a psychiatric hospital for three weeks, and I’m going to have these symptoms of the rest of my life. You know, it’s under control but until a few weeks ago I had ‘clinical suspiciousness” and that wasn’t fun at all.”

 

Proxy Stiles makes a face and opens and shuts his mouth a few times. Finally he says, “Look, I’m not- I don’t want you to think I just brushed it off.  I was trapped in my head. With this— this thing using my body. Constantly telling me what he was going to do to my friends. What he was going to do to _Isaac._  He _touched_ Isaac.”  Proxy Stiles shivers and his eyes are on Stiles’ face but focused somewhere else. “ He murdered two people with my body.  He was planning to kill Allison.”

 

Proxy Stiles shakes himself and blinks his way back into reality.  “So yeah, it wasn’t fun. And I can’t imagine what it must be like to know it could happen again at any time, even just in my mind. I had nightmares for months.  It’s just- it eventually was just one thing in a whole line of awful that happened in Beacon Hills. It blurs together. I might have a tendency to brush off how shitty each of them individually were.  But it sucked. And what you’re going through sucks.”

 

“It does suck,” Stiles agrees. “But like, your whole life seems to suck so that’s garbage I guess.”

 

“My whole life doesn’t suck,” Proxy Stiles says, but he’s not that defensive even though in the split second Stiles took to reflect, he had every right to be, “I have Isaac.”

 

Totally. “Yeah, me too.”

 

He knows they should go to the living room and rejoin the Isaacs, but they’re _connecting_ and they haven’t talked about Dad yet and he needs to know. What if he’s dead or something? “Did Dad turn out okay in your world?”

 

Proxy Stiles nods, “Yeah, you know. There were some rough patches. But he’s doing really well, especially since he met Jody.”

 

“Jody?”

 

“His wife?”

 

“His _wife?”_  

 


	13. Chapter 13

Other him looks taken aback at the mention of Dad’s wife, Jody, and Stiles feels offended.  Not that he’d been super enthusiastic about the marriage when it first happened, either, but that had been for entirely different reasons. 

 

“Uh, yeah,” he says,  “I take it Dad’s not married here?”

 

“He’s not your dad here.  He’s mine.”

 

Which is just ridiculous.  His dad is his dad no matter what.  No little slip in dimensions could change that.  “Yeah, okay, buddy. But he’s not?”

 

“No.” Other Stiles crosses his arm up high, hands tucked under his armpits.  “It’s not sad or anything. He’s not lonely! Like he’s got friends. Good ones!  He and Melissa and Chris are embarrassingly good friends. Like Snapchat and FaceTime each other good friends.”

 

Stiles makes a face and wonders if it matches the one his other self is currently making.

 

“They even take trips together. Peter hated that shit for a long time.”

 

Stiles completely ignores that last part. He’d completely ignore Peter’s existence here if he could. “Dad’s friends with Mr. Argent in our world, too.  I don’t think it’s as close as that, but Mr. Argent first stepped in to help Isaac because Dad went to him.”

 

Other Stiles is quiet for a moment, then says, “I’m glad Chris was there to help your Isaac, too.”

 

Stiles nods. The older he’s gotten the more he’s understood how incredibly lucky they’d been to have Chris and his dad in their corner.  One for the supernatural threats, the other for the human, emotional ones. And Melissa and Victoria and… Christ, they’d just been so  _ lucky.   _ So loved.

 

His throat feels swollen and tight and he clears it before asking lightly, “Does he still try to sneak eating shitty food here?”

 

“God, yes!  Do you know how many times I had to go through the freezer and switch out frozen crap for real food?  I stole his frequent diner card for Denny’s when I was fourteen.”

 

“Curly fries,” Stiles rejoins.  “The man is gonna kill himself with Curly Fries. That was one of the biggest things I worried about when we left, you know? Was he gonna take care of himself? I couldn’t be there anymore for that.”

 

“When you...left?”

 

Stiles clears his throat again. His emotions are all over the place.  He decides it's the come down from the Adderall working out of his system.

 

“We--Isaac and me--left Beacon Hills the day after our senior year ended.  We didn’t come back for over four years.”

 

Other Stiles chews on that, but asks the predictable follow up. “Why?”  Scott had asked him the same thing.

 

“Isaac needed to be gone. Beacon Hills almost killed him. And it kept tearing him apart every single day.  I was putting bandaids on, you know, but they kept getting torn off, and he was...it was like he was constantly bleeding and I could just barely keep it slowed enough so that he didn’t bleed out.  We were fucking kids and I wanted to fix it and he wanted to fix it but we couldn’t because it was always  _ there _ .  We needed...we needed a place where he could get better.”

 

He crosses his arms and then immediately uncrosses them when he realizes he’d matched his other selves’ stance.  “I’d do anything for Isaac,” he finishes. Up to and including killing this other version of him if he had to. He’s pretty sure they’re past that fear, but he wants that clear.

 

****************************

 

“I get it,” Stiles says, resisting the urge to hold his hands up in surrender. He recognizes a veiled threat when he hears one. “If I could smash up anyone who ever hurt my Isaac I would. So like--no one is going to hurt him okay? Truce? You don’t hurt us. We don’t hurt you. No one gets hurt.”

 

Proxy Stiles nods tersely, and Stiles is not convinced at all that he agrees or believes him. 

 

“Look,” he says, “Isaac--and Beah--I love him more than anything. I didn’t know him when he was a teenager, I met him after a lot of time and he’d built up all these backwards coping skills to deal with what has happened to him. It’s taken years to walk backwards out of that. I can’t--I can’t imagine being there right when it was happening and the fucking pain that must have been.”

 

“It wasn’t--I would do  _ anything _ for him,” Proxy Stiles.

 

Now Stiles does hold his hands up, “I know dude,” he says, “Anything. I totally get it. I guess, it’s just good you had each other. To take care of each other.” 

 

Proxy Stiles nods, “Our lives aren’t just nonstop terror. We cook together. We go out to dinner. We dance. We--we do normal things and have a really full life. Don’t make the mistake of thinking your lives are better or more full than ours because you’ve never encountered a rougarou and you have a baby.” 

 

“A preschooler,” Stiles corrects, “But I get it. You like your life the way it is. We like our life the way ours is. Can we agree that our number one goal--after not getting hurt--is setting this right?”

 

“We can,” Proxy Stiles says, “I have milk back home that’s getting bad by the second.” 

  
  


Chris doesn’t come out for Josephine which is fine, Isaac just hands her off to Stiles once he and the other Stiles come out of the hallway. 

 

“Hot potato,” Stiles says when he receives her. 

 

“Please don’t call my sister a potato,” he says. He opens the storage closet and starts pulling out the sheets for the pullout and extra pillows. 

 

“So she’s Peter and Chris’?” the other Isaac asks. “Their daughter?”

 

“Yeah?” Isaac says, glancing towards Beah’s bedroom door where Chris and Peter have been mysteriously quiet. “They adopted her from birth.”

 

“So their granddaughter is older than their daughter.”

 

“We’ve done the math,” Stiles says. “Beah calls JoJo her cousin, and we all cope with how confusing the world is.” 

  
Isaac carefully places the sheets and blankets on the couch. “Do you want us to--”

 

“We can manage,” the other Stiles says.

 

“Okay,” Isaac says. Then he doesn’t know what to say anymore. 

 

Stiles saves the day. “Well the TV works. Feel free to enjoy our banked episodes of House Hunters and Fixer Upper. Just don’t delete them. We go to sleep early because of Beah, and Isaac’s job which--” he turns to Isaac with wide eyes. 

 

“I’m not working tomorrow,” he reminds Stiles, “It’s Friday, remember? It’s my farmers market prep day.” 

 

“Right,” Stiles says, “And I don’t have any classes, so we can bend space and time together all we want in the morning. Wait, is time progressing for you guys? Are you going to miss work?”

 

The others look at each other. The other Stiles shrugs. “We haven’t exactly crossed dimensions before. We don’t know.”

 

“Okay well I hope not,” Stiles says, “Your students would start hella rumours if you don’t show up.”

 

The other Stiles nods and almost--almost--seems to smile. 

 

For the first time they let the others out of their sight. Which Chris might object to, hard, but he’s in Beah’s room right now and Isaac trusts them enough to leave them in the living room for a few minutes. Isaac goes to the bathroom to take out his contacts and Stiles follows, standing in the doorway with Josephine in his arms. 

 

“Do you think that Proxy Isaac wears glasses?” Stiles asks.

 

“Proxy Isaac?” Isaac repeats. 

 

“Yeah, that’s what I’ve been calling them. En mi cabesa. Probably not right? Proxy Stiles says that werewolves heal, so like, maybe his eyes aren’t as fucked up as yours. You didn’t start going blind until you were a teenager, and he was bit when he was a teenager.”

 

“Thank you so much,” Isaac says, fighting the urge to squint as he sticks his finger in his eye. “I don’t know. Maybe not. Also we don’t know when I started ‘going blind,’ it’s not like my dad was taking me to the doctor. If his eyes are as bad as mine I should probably see if he needs to borrow a storage case and some saline.” He opens the medicine cabinet and takes out his glasses from their case. They’re the same matte silver pair that Stiles helped him pick out when they were first dating and Stiles manipulated him into getting an eye exam, but Isaac only wears them in the morning, or between taking out his contacts and going to bed. 

 

“Too bad if he doesn’t,” Stiles says, “You look sexy as hell when you wear them.”

 

“You just like that I look smarter than I am.”

 

“Where is the therapy binder? You are so fucking smart, glasses or not.”

 

“Okay stop, that’s not what we’re doing right now.” He stands up straight and looks at Stiles. He looks so tired. There’s no metaphor for how tired he looks because anything besides, “looks like he’s encountered alternative dimension versions of them and has to host them for the night” falls short. “We going to sleep?” he asks.

 

“I think we should check in with Chris first, find out if there’s a keeping watch plan?” Stiles says. 

 

“I’m probably not sleeping,” Isaac admits. He can feel it. He wishes the others weren’t sleeping in the living room so he could clear the macarons off the counter and make bread or something. Something time consuming. 

 

“Nooo, Isaac,” Stiles groans, “You need to sleep. Where. Is. The. Therapy. Binder.”

 

“Shut up,” Isaac says. He puts out his arms for Josephine, and Stiles hands her over. “Hi JoJo!” he sings. “Do you think Chris is okay?” he asks, bouncing JoJo. She’s nodding off, and he strokes her head, encouraging her to put it down on his shoulder. 

 

“What?” Stiles says, “Of course he’s okay. He’s Chris.”

 

“That doesn't mean--today has  _ sucked  _ for him. First we call him and say that there’s like these  _ threats  _ in Malia’s apartment, then he flies here and has no idea what’s going on. Then has has to talk about his wife. And his dad. It’s a lot.”

 

Stiles looks back into the living room, checking for Chris probably. “What was that, by the way? About his dad?”

 

Isaac shrugs. He decided a long time ago that he wasn't telling Stiles. He tells Stiles most everything--more than he’s told anyone ever. But this is Chris’ and Chris’ alone, and he isn’t going to betray his huge fucking trust in him, even to Stiles. 

 

“You can’t tell me,” Stiles says. 

 

“It sounds like alt Peter and Victoria killed him,” Isaac says. 

 

“That tells me a lot,” Stiles says. 

 

“Yeah,” he says, “I guess it does.” 

 

****************************

 

Peter slips Chris’ jacket from his shoulder, unbuckles both shoulder holster and wrist sheaths and drops them on the bed, and then nudges Chris to raise his arms so he can strip his t-shirt off, undressing him as if he were a child.

 

Peter kneels and begins unlacing Chris’ boots, running a hand down the inside of his thigh as he goes, and Chris is forced to amend.  _ Not quite like a child _ .

 

When the garrote joins the gun and the holster and the flash bombs that were already on the bedspread Peter looks up at him.  “The child’s good.”

 

Chris makes a noise from the back of his throat.  “That’s because I trained him.” Peter raises an eyebrow and Chris continues, pulling Peter to his feet where he immediately moves to undoing Chris’ belt.  “The other me, I guess. It’s easy enough to see, when we fought. It was like fighting a younger, less experienced version of myself.”

 

“Still adopting strays, no matter the reality.  I suppose it’s an integral part of your make up then,” Peter says mournfully, pulling a small smile from Chris.  Peter digs around in the overnight bag and tosses Chris a pair of pajama pants. 

 

“Put these on.”

 

After Chris complies, Peter steps into him, pressing their foreheads together.  Chris’ bones and blood and brain all settle into their proper places and he breathes free for the first time since Isaac had called him.

 

“They all think I somehow redeemed you,” Chris whispers, aware this bubble of time is short, that they need to retrieve Josephine, that they need to figure out supplies--they’ll be out of diapers by the morning and formula soon after--but, “how can none of them see you hold me together?”

 

“Oh Christopher,” Peter says beezily, “you’ll make me blush.  Besides, they’re not wrong.”

 

“Peter.”  He nudges Peter’s chin up, forcing him to look at him directly because Peter has a very bad habit of this, of acting as if the things most important to him don’t matter at all unless he can come at them sideways.  It had been a huge hurdle in the early days of their relationship, before Chris had learned the language of Peter, back when he kept underestimating how deadly serious Peter was about the thing between them.

 

“You woke me back up. You reminded me I existed beyond my children.”

 

“Is this your way of saying I’m a fabulous fuck? Then thank you and you’re welcome.”

 

Chris sighs.  “Peter.”

 

“Chris.”  Peter cups his face and nods. “I love you, too.”

 

Chris accepts the concession and lets his forehead return to resting against Peter’s.  They stand there for another long moment, until a knock on the door interrupts.

 

“Good?” Peter asks.

 

“Good,” Chris confirms, then opens the door to reveal Stiles with Josephine in his arms. 

 

“Is there a plan? Are we setting a watch? Isaac says he isn’t gonna sleep.  I’m not good with that. I’m not super good with any of this.”

 

Chris grabs the small diaper bag and hoists it over his shoulder. “I have to make JoJo her bottle. I’ll talk to him.”

*******

 

Chris appears with JoJo and a diaper bag and inclines his head for Isaac to join him in the kitchen. He walks past him, and two steps into the kitchen Chris stops short, likely taking in the colorful macarons that cover every surface.

 

“Sorry,” Isaac says, walking ahead and taking a cooling tray and stacking it on top of another, freeing up space on their stovetop. “Sorry, I’m prepping for the farmers market.” 

 

Chris is unphased. “That’s alright Isaac, that’s your job.” 

 

_ My stupid job is making macarons while in another universe I solve crimes like a fucking badass,  _ Isaac thinks. 

 

He can be helpful, at least. He reaches for the diaper bag at Chris’ waist and retrieves the bottle and packet of formula and sets to making a bottle. It comes back easily. He hasn’t done it in years, but there was a part of his life when it seemed like all he did was make bottles for Beah. 

 

“Thank you,” Chris says when Isaac hands him the shaken bottle. Seeing the bottle, JoJo begins to cry loudly, shrieking like she thinks she won’t get the bottle. It’s the first time she’s cried since arriving that Isaac has heard. She is Chris’ daughter, she probably sensed that it was important to be quiet for this time. But now she is screaming her head off, and Chris is uncharacteristically hurried as he sits at the kitchen tables and rearranges her in his arms to feed her. 

 

Isaac moves a tray of macarons and sits down on a chair and watches. “You’re so good with her,” he says. 

 

Chris glances up at him. “I’m just feeding her.” 

 

“That’s not what I mean,” Isaac says, “I can’t imagine my dad ever held me when I was this little. It’s probably better than he didn’t.”

 

Chris looks at him for real this time, searching, “You’re thinking about your father?”

 

It’s sometimes awkward talking to Chris about Creek. He rarely does it, most of the talking happened when he fell apart after the adoption years ago, but still when he does he feel guilty for using the words “dad” and “father” about the wrong person, and a little weirded out when Chris does it too. 

 

Isaac shrugs, “I was talking to the other Isaac about him.”

 

Something flickers in Chris’ face and Isaac shuts up real quick but Chris shakes his head. “No,” he says, blanketly assuring him, “It’s just odd to hear you call him Isaac.”

 

“But he is Isaac. That’s his name.”

 

“ _ You’re  _ Isaac,” Chris says. “Don’t get confused, there is only one of you.”

 

“I’m not confused,” Isaac says, “Listen, he’s been through the same things as me, and we talked about it. He’s a werewolf yeah and that’s weird but he’s still--”

 

“Isaac,” Chris cuts in, “Only you are you. It is dangerous to attach yourself as though  you were the same person.”

 

God, why is Chris being so uncool about this? “You don’t like him?” he asks.

 

“I don’t like or dislike him” Chris says, “You are my concern. You and Josephine. I’m here to protect you.” 

 

“But he is me,” Isaac insists, “He had the same dad, okay? You don’t--I  _ know y _ ou get it but knowing someone who went through the exact same things--Chris there’s stuff I haven’t even been able to  _ tell _ you--and he went through them. And he’s here now and he’s like a  _ scientist _ and he seems mostly okay. 

 

“You don’t know that it was the same,” Chris says.

 

Isaac thinks of the smooth skin on the other Isaac’s elbow, and the lack of scar high on his cheekbone that means maybe Creek never threw a water pitcher at him the night he died. But he remembers what he said to Beah about scars and the way he reacted when he thought Creek was coming and he  _ knows.  _

 

“Okay so it wasn’t exactly the same,” he says, “And we’re not exactly the same person. He’s clearly smarter than me, and he has these like superhuman abilities and has probably saved people’s lives but--”

 

“Isaac,” Chris cuts in, “This is why I worry about you conflating yourself with this person.”

 

“Because he’s better than me?” Isaac asks.

 

“No,” Chris says, “Because you already compare yourself negatively to others. It does you no good to assume this person is you.” 

 

“But--”

 

“ _ You  _ are enough. You are a wonderful father, and husband and son. You are a very talented baker which requires science and math and advanced planning skills and proves that you are  _ very smart.  _  You know more about Civil War history than anyone I have ever met, and I have had the unfortunate experience of interacting with Civil War reenactors. You have an incredible capacity for empathy which is why I am worried about you.” 

 

“No--” Isaac starts. He never understands why Chris and Stiles and his Austin therapist try to describe him these ways when the evidence against them is insurmountable. 

 

“And even if you weren’t these things,” Chris continues, “You are still enough. There is nothing to be gained in comparing yourself to him.”

 

“Okay,” Isaac says, “whatever.”

 

“Did any of that land?” Chris asks.

 

“Yeah I get it,” Isaac says because he doesn’t want to talk about this anymore. “Other Isaac isn’t me, I’m not him, you love me so much.”

 

“I do,” Chris says, “I do love you so much.”

 

“Yeah okay,” Isaac says. Josephine finishes the bottle and Isaac reaches over towards the oven and grabs a dishcloth for Chris to use as a burping cloth. He rearranges JoJo in his arms and starts patting her on the back, all without taking his eyes off of Isaac.

 

“Stiles told me you don’t plan on sleeping.”

 

“I don’t plan on not sleeping, I know I won’t sleep.”

 

“How?”

 

“Heuristics? Whenever something big or stressful happens I don’t sleep. It’s fine, you know I’ve gone days without sleeping before.”

 

“I do know this, that doesn’t make it okay for you not to sleep. I also know that sometimes you sleep when you are stressed, and this may be one of those times.”

 

“But don’t you want me to like keep watch, make sure they don’t burn the house down?”

 

“You’re not a soldier. If anyone is keeping watch it’s me.”

 

“You’re not a soldier either,” Isaac says. Chris starts to say something but stops himself. He pulls back to look at Josephine and smiles at her. 

 

“I am the most qualified to handle it if something goes wrong,” Chris says, “You and Josephine are my children, and Beah is my grandchild and in this house it is my responsibility to keep you safe.”

 

It was such a Chris thing to say, but he was speaking in a tone of voice he used less and less once Peter came around. Professional, and almost--almost--resigned. 

 

“Stiles and I are adults,” Isaac says, “This is our house, actually. It’s not all on you.”

 

Chris shakes his head, “You will not stay up all night. You need to be alert in the morning, for Stiles and Beah.”

 

“And you need to be alert for the entire fucking world, apparently,” Isaac says. “I’m  _ going  _ to stay up all night because that’s how my brain works. Stiles needs to sleep because of his meds, but if you and Peter wanted to help keep watch then whatever but I’m making bread.”

 

The other Isaac appears in the doorway of the kitchen, which Isaac belatedly realizes was just a few feet away, and the others could have been listening to the entire conversation . He looks to Chris to see if he has the same realization, but Chris is just steadily watching the other Isaac. 

 

“Sorry,” he says, “Water?”

 

Isaac points to the cabinet with their dollar store glasses. “We don’t use a Brita or anything.” 

 

The other Isaac nods and retrieves a glass. It’s silent in the kitchen as both he and Chris watch him pour a glass of water and the other Isaac stoically pretends not to notice them do it. Just as he’s turning to leave Chris says, “Did you need something?”  

 

****************************

 

His son’s doppelgänger freezes, eyes wide like a deer caught in headlights, and then, as Chris watches, slowly unfurls, limb by limb, tension releasing as his shoulders square up and he faces Isaac.

 

And with each muscle that unclenches, a comparable one tenses in Chris, the hair raising on the back of his neck like anticipation of a storm, of lightning. Something is coming.


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Friends! Friends! Guess what? THERUDESTFLOWER AND I ARE POSTING THIS FROM THE SAME LOCATION! That’s right - INTERNET FRIENDS MEETING IRL IS HAPPENING!!

Chris opens his mouth but he’s not fast enough. 

 

“Yeah, yeah I do,” his son’s doppelgänger spits out, the words an angry, violent bullet, unlike anything he’s heard from the man, even when he’d forced himself in the middle of Chris and the man with the scar, even when he’d pushed them apart and made his demands.  His glare is all for Isaac, furious and indignant. Right now they look nothing alike. Right now his son’s doppelgänger looks entirely unrecognizable.

 

“You think...you think you’re something less than me?  You think...you think they would love me more? You think this—“ He waves his hand vaguely at his body, “is something to be jealous of?  You wouldn’t even...you’re so afraid of hearing it you won’t even listen to what Stiles or I said. But you should listen. You should listen.  You fucking...you fucking bake bread and cookies and muffins. You make...you make things. I can’t even give Stiles a family because I might  _ hurt _ a kid.”

 

Isaac shakes his head and Chris fruitlessly holds up a hand, trying to stop this before it starts.  Isaac either doesn’t see or doesn’t care to listen. “No. No you wouldn’t. I worried about the same thing with Beah.  Like the whole nine months--even now, sometimes. I was terrified I was gonna be like Cree—“

 

“Shut up,” his son’s doppelgänger says, icy and absolute, his eyes dark and blank.  “You ever hurt Stiles?”

 

Chris needs to stop this because even if he doesn’t know the exact path, he knows it’s going some place bad.  He stands and walks to Isaac, setting Josephine gently in his arms and pausing only long enough to make sure Isaac realizes she’s actually there.

 

“What?” The confusion in his son’s voice breaks Chris’ heart. He keeps failing, over and over again, keeps falling short in somehow showing Isaac he is loved.  That he is Chris’  _ child _ .  “I mean, yeah.  We fuck up all the—“

 

“No, I’m not talking about his feelings. I’m talking about physically.”  The doppelganger’s voice is getting faster and faster, and the hand holding the water is shaking enough that the water sloshes out and his other hand is gripping the door frame.  There’s a creak, and then a crack. Isaac jumps. “Because I have. More than once. You know that scar? That scar Stiles showed you? That he said was from Derek?”

 

This is news to Chris, and he files it away as a conversation for a later date.

 

“It wasn’t Derek.  It wasn’t Derek. Maybe it was because— but it doesn’t matter, because it was us. It was us.  Erica threw him and I sat there and watched. Did nothing.  _ Grinned _ while it happened because you know at least it wasn’t  _ me.   _ And I loved him.  I loved him so fucking much even if I didn’t understand the word.

 

Chris moves, puts himself in front of Isaac. He has to do something. Has to get this situation under control.  Needs to neutralize the threat before it explodes. But he’s frozen, just as much as Isaac is. Because this isn’t his child.  It isn’t. And he’s been very careful in maintaining the distinction. But his face is his, and his trauma is his, and there is no part of Chris that can hurt his  _ son. _

 

“And Stiles...Stiles still stayed.  He stayed and he saved me when he could...when he deserves so much better.  When he deserves someone...someone like  _ you _ .  Do you know...do you know how many of them were there?  During college? During grad school? Just...just waiting to scoop him up when he stopped being a fucking martyr?  Do you have any idea how many of them I almost killed?”

 

Chris steps close.  Close enough he can feel breath on his face and the vibrations from the way his son’s double is shaking.  There are claws on the hand against the the doorframe and he sees movement in the dark of the living room, presumably the man with the scar roused from sleep by the noise.

 

“And you’ve got...you’ve got a father who loves you, and a husband who loves you, and a...and a  _ child.   _ And you have the nerve to take them for granted? To pretend like you’re not  _ good enough?   _ Because I  _ solve crimes _ ?  My whole body is an entire walking  _ crime _ .”

 

Chris sets a careful hand on his shoulder.  “Isaac,” he says quietly, “stop.”

 

***********

 

Isaac jerks, the room coming back into focus.  He looks, bewildered, at the hand on his shoulder.  “Mr. Argent?”

 

“Isaac,” he says again, “you are present. You are here.”

 

“Mr. Argent?” He says again.  Over Chris’ shoulder he sees Isaac 2.0, holding JoJo with one arm and holding the other hand over his mouth. In another half second he feels Stiles’ arm slip around him from behind.

 

“I’m sorry,” he whispers.  “I scared you. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”  He can barely remember what he said. He can barely remember the last five minutes at all.

 

**************

 

Isaac is frozen. 

 

He’s had nightmares like this.

 

Where he screams at himself for being a good for nothing piece of shit idiot who has no right expecting anything from anyone.

 

But this is actually happening. The other Isaac comes to himself, blinking with the other Stiles at his back. Isaac’s heart is beating loud in his ear. JoJo is in his arms, and miracle of miracles she isn’t crying, she’s reaching for Isaac’s jaw and batting at it. 

 

“Hey Jo,” he whispers, keeping his eyes on the other Isaac. 

 

The other Isaac turns back towards his Stiles who wraps his arms around him, running his fingers through his hair. “You’re alright,” the other Stiles says, “You’re alright.”

 

Chris turns back towards Isaac and JoJo, checking on them. 

 

“Are you alright?”

 

He isn’t alright. The doorway to the kitchen is  _ cracked  _ and there’s no explaining that to their landlord. Isaac thinks he’s some ungrateful jerk and he apparently has  _ hurt Stiles  _ which is not okay even if it’s this other world’s asshole Stiles. And he says that Erica hurt Stiles, which she would never ever do, and he just doesn’t know what to think.

 

Maybe Chris is right. Maybe he is wrong to think that this Isaac is him. 

 

Except he still is. The way he seemed to shift then snap out of it. Isaac had been there before. The last time he got arrested was outside a gay club--pre-Austin move, post-Stiles--when he lost himself and got into a fight. When the handcuffs went on it was like he was able to see the whole world again, see the person he had hurt, and it was  _ awful.  _

 

“I’m sorry,” the other Isaac whispers into his Stiles’s shoulder. “I’m sorry.”

 

“It’s okay,” Chris says, before Isaac has a chance, “Let’s not continue that, shall we? You were sleeping? Can you go back to sleep?”

 

The other Stiles looks at Chris and nods, “Come on Isaac,” he says, “Let’s give their shitty pull out couch another try.”

 

The other Isaac inhales deeply and turns around and looks right at Isaac. Which Isaac isn’t thrilled by because the last time he did he was yelling. “I’m sorry,” he says, louder than before.

 

Isaac hates when people apologize to him. 

 

“I’m sorry,” Isaac says, “What I said upset you. I wasn’t trying to. I just--” he looks at Chris who nods, even though he can’t know what he’s going to say. “I have self-esteem issues? You could be the worst person in the world and I would think you were better than me. Not that you are.”

 

The other Isaac nods. “I’m not as good as you think.” 

 

Isaac doesn’t know what to say. He doesn’t want to trigger another freakout but he can’t let that stand. The other Stiles saves him. 

 

“You’re as good as  _ I _ think you are,” he says, “Come on, let’s lie down. Or sit down. Up to you.”

 

The other Isaac nods and they disappear into the dark of the living room.

 

While Isaac talks to Chris, Stiles goes with Peter to retrieve Beah’s old crib from the garage. Peter nods appreciatively at the labeled system that all their crap was organized into--Isaac’s doing. He stops Stiles from touching the crib.

 

“Are there spiders on here?”

 

“Nope,” Stiles says, “There are no spiders in Texas. Not a one.”

 

“I am not thrilled that my daughter will be sleeping on a mattress that has been in the elements for over a year.”

 

Stiles leans against the crib. “I don’t know what to tell you bro. You could try cosleeping, or you could try to find a 24 hour bougie furniture store, or you could accept that I also don’t want my baby sister-in-law to be sleeping on some spider infested mattress, and if I thought there were spiders I wouldn’t let her.”   
  


Peter huffs and brushes his hands briskly over the crib frame and mattress and nods when he finds no spider nest. “Come now, what are you standing around for? Let’s get this inside.”

 

Stiles rolls his eyes but compiles. 

 

Inside it’s dark and the Proxies are sitting on the pullout couch, whispering to one another. Their foreheads are pressed together and Proxy Stiles is holding Proxy Isaac’s head in his hands. 

 

“Good night?” Stiles says. They don’t respond.

 

After he and Peter set the crib up in Beah’s room and Stiles finds some crib sheets, he goes to their bedroom. His meds knock him out within an hour of taking them and he is ready to fall asleep. In their room, lit up by Beah’s night light, he finds Beah facedown on the center of the mattress, and Isaac pulling back the covers to get into bed. 

 

Thank god. 

 

Stiles toes off his shoes. He wishes Beah wasn’t in the center of the bed so he could pull Isaac close and assure him that whatever bullshit happened today,  _ he  _ was real. 

 

“You’re going to sleep?” he asks.

 

“I’m going to try,” Isaac whispers, “Chris got all upset about it.”

 

Good. Stiles was all upset about it too. He gets into bed, careful not to jostle Beah. Beah stirs for a moment, and they look at each other with eyes wide until she sighs and settles.  They sigh at the same time. 

 

“Our kitchen doorway is cracked,” Isaac says. 

 

“What? How did that happen?”

 

Isaac explains. 

 

“Shit,” Stiles whispers. “That sounds like--”

 

“Like me when I get angry?” Isaac asks.

 

“No,” Stiles says, “You haven’t gotten outwardly angry like that in while. You eat it until you can get high. I was going to say that sounds like it would be really scary.”

 

“Oh,” Isaac says, “It was.”

 

“Are you okay?” Stiles asks. He’s not sure that he’s thrilled at having someone who cracks doorways--and eavesdrops to boot--sleeping just a dozen feet away from Beah. Just when he thinks he has a handle on the Proxies, they change the game. 

 

“I think so,” Isaac says, “I feel like shit about the things I said to Chris. I feel like I disappointed him and Isaac.”

 

“Don’t worry about it,” Stiles says, “Chris knows you, to be honest you’re sometimes a broken record about how shitty you are and it’s a very sad song but it’s a song we know.”

 

“Gee thanks, now I feel much better,” Isaac whispers. 

 

“Don’t mention it,” Stiles says, “I’m just saying, don’t worry. You were talking to your dad in a private conversation, and you’re not responsible for how this guy reacted to it.”

 

“I guess.”

 

“Yes, for sure. Remember what Chicago Therapist Reina said? You’re only responsible for your behavior? It’s still true, even about alternative dimension yous.” 

 

“How are you being so good?” Isaac asks, “You’re like, so fucking well adjusted to all this.”

 

Stiles quietly laughs, “I’m freaking out. Believe me. Maybe I’m used to my reality being kind of twisted and scary? It’s kind of a relief not to be going through it alone.”

 

“You’re not alone the other times,” Isaac says. 

 

Yeah, he is, because it’s happening in his brain and nowhere else, but he appreciates what Isaac is saying. He reaches over Beah and Isaac offers his hand and squeezes. 

 

“Too bad we have three year old in the middle of our bed, otherwise we could work out the stress of the day. You know. In a sexual way,” Stiles says.

 

“You are so fucking sexy when you talk that way,” Isaac jokes. Then makes a face. “You don’t think they’re going to have sex in our living room do you? You saw the way they were all over each other.” 

 

Stiles falls back on the bed and groans. “God I hope not. Our couch barely survived Boyd and Erica.” 

 

*************

 

After the other Stiles disappears into his room and the entire house falls still, Stiles finally convinces Isaac to lie back down.  They lie face to face on the truly shitty pull out, metal rod poking uncomfortable right through the middle. Isaac’s eyes burn with a tinge of yellow and Stiles slowly and repetitively runs his fingers through his curls.

 

“I’m sorry,” Isaac says for the thousandth time.

 

“For what?” Stiles asks, instead of pushing if off or excusing it away, which he’d really prefer to do because as far as he’s concerned Isaac hasn’t done anything to apologize for.

 

“For doing that. For still not...still not...for still being a work in progress. You’d think after five years of therapy I’d be cured or something.  Maybe we should ask for a refund?” He’s joking, because he understands the process, but Stiles also knows he gets frustrated by how many knots there still are to untangle.

 

“There’s nothing to cure you from.” He wishes they were Not Here, because he wants to be skin to skin, putting his mouth and his skin on Isaac to erase that insane notion that Stiles would ever want to be anywhere but right where he is. He’d made the mistake of thinking that fear had been worked out, that Isaac had moved past it in the last couple of years. He should have known better because he is well aware of how much Isaac tries to hide that shit.

 

“There’s nothing to cure you from,” he repeats. “You’re not a sickness or a disease. There are tools to manage your life, and adaptations so your brain and your body do what you want, but you are  _ you _ and you’re mine.  So I’m gonna need you to stop shit talking my things.”

 

Dr. Martin is not a fan of that particular quirk of theirs but Dr. Martin also doesn’t know she’s providing therapy to a supernatural creature, so he understands how it looks.  

 

Isaac smirks and Stiles internally does a fist pump.  “When was the last time you had an episode, babe?”

 

Isaac mentally calculates and the fact it takes time for him to actually remember is a victory all its own.  “Almost three years.”

 

A month after their first visit back to Beacon Hills.  Dr. Martin had called it a rebound episode and said it wasn’t unexpected.”

 

“Right. Almost three years.  Do you remember when it was at least once a week?”

 

Isaac breathes through his nose and nods, eyes halfway shut as Stiles sneakily lulls him to sleep with the hand in his hair.  “I just thought maybe we were done.”

 

“It has been. A very weird day. I mean, I tried to stab Mr. Argent.  I haven’t tried that in like nine years. So.”

 

Isaac nods again.

 

“What did Dr. Martin say?  Recovery is not—?”

 

“Linear,” Isaac finishes.  “You’re so annoying. I hate you.”  Then he snuggles into Stiles, shoving his face into his neck and twisting his fingers into his t-shirt.  Stiles wraps his arms tight around him and tangles their legs together.

 

“Sleep?” He suggests.

 

“Sleep,” Isaac agrees.


	15. Chapter 15

Isaac sleeps.

 

Not  _ well.  _

 

And not for long. He wakes up in the night to Beah’s face on his chest, Beah’s elbow on his face, Beah’s feet kicking his leg. She does not similarly assault Stiles who somehow sleeps like a baby. 

 

At four he wakes up and there’s no point in trying to go back to sleep because that’s when he wakes up every day. It’s just the life he’s chosen. He carefully gets out of bed, checking as he does that he hasn’t woken Beah or Stiles who are both sound asleep with their mouths open. He gropes for his glasses on the bedside table and gets up, carefully walking into the hallway outside their room. 

 

The living room is dark, but Isaac still pokes his head in. The others are under their Walgreens blankets, pressed against each other and sound asleep. 

 

It doesn't make sense that they were all able to sleep. The world is basically ending, there is no sense to anything and there is supernatural in the world that most of them didn’t know about but still. They slept. 

 

Chris is in the kitchen because Chris wakes up early too. He has stacked the cooling racks the macarons were on so that counter space and table space is clear, and there’s room to sit on all the chairs. He’s sitting at a chair with his glasses on, reading the news on his phone. He looks up when he hears Isaac walk in. 

 

“Did you sleep?” he says first.

 

“A little,” Isaac says. 

 

Chris hums which is the closest he gets to saying “I told you so.” He puts down his phone. “Are you going to go on a run?” he asks.

 

Isaac shrugs. “Do you want to come with me?” Chris glances towards the living room and Isaac gets the message. “Did  _ you  _ sleep?” he asks. 

 

Chris doesn’t answer. “If you go on a run, when you get back I’ll go to the store and pick up the necessary supplies.”

 

“Chris, did you sleep?”

 

Finally Chris says, “I did. Peter kept watch for a few hours. He--he strongly encouraged me to sleep.”

 

Isaac loves Chris, but he is such a hypocrite sometimes. “Good,” he says instead of “Chris you can’t tell me not to stay up then stay up yourself you fucking weirdo.” 

 

He's spending too much time with Stiles.

 

Isaac does go on a run, on his normal route to downtown Austin and back. When he first moved here he got lost all the time, unused to navigating a place without Lake Michigan serving as a directional anchor. On the run he gets a snap from Allison who is on her morning run. He slows to a walk, taking in the snap she had sent him of the shimmering lake. 

 

Chris never said anything, but he knows he can't tell her, and Stiles can’t tell his dad. This situation is limited to just those who had come this far. It’s going to be a secret. 

 

Isaac can do secrets. 

 

He takes a snap of the ground and sends it to her without a caption to which she replies “WOW I LOVE YOu TOO” 

 

He turns back early. What if something is happening? He feels guilty leaving Beah and Stiles alone. Not that they were really alone. Not with Chris.

 

Usually his morning runs provide clarity but this one is doing nothing. He feels more confused than he did the night before. The other Isaac had flipped things when he got angry. Saying he had hurt Stiles--his Stiles--Isaac couldn’t even think about it. His worst nightmare is that he might hurt Stiles or Beah. Knowing that some version of him did--

 

He doesn’t know how he is even going to look at Isaac in the morning. He gets low self esteem, and he gets thinking he’s a piece of shit. But hurting Stiles is something else. He feels sick at the idea, like he was the one who did it. He shakes his head. He can’t think about it. He won’t. Not until this is over and he can be alone with Stiles. 

 

Part of him dreads what’s coming when the others wake up. It seems like every moment is charged with the potential for either connection like he’d never experienced before, or complete disaster. 

 

Actually all of him is dreading it. 

 

He makes a stop in his car on the way in and takes a few hits. Nothing crazy. Just enough to deal with what’s coming. 

 

Inside it is still dark except for the kitchen light he can just see from the door. In the kitchen 

Chris is at the same place at the table, but the other Stiles is up, in the same clothes he’d changed into at Malia’s apartment. They should have offered them pajamas, Isaac belatedly realizes.

 

“What are you doing?” Isaac asks. 

 

The other Stiles looks between Chris and Isaac. “I don’t suppose you have food that’s not pastel?” 

 

**************

 

Chris sees Isaac open and close his mouth before his eyebrows tilt in defensively.  “Yes, of course we do. We just...there aren’t as many of us…”

 

Chris calmly interrupts.  “They have four unexpected adult guests.  And today is Isaac’s prep day. I’m just about to run to the store for supplies.”

 

The man with the scar is staring at Isaac with one eyebrow raised precipitously.  “First of all, dude, that was a joke. Do you have any idea how happy you made Isaac with the fact you bake? Pretty sure he still regrets he decided he could actually eat after he’d already fixated on a career.”

 

Chris thinks of Isaac and the careful food groups he used to maintain.

 

“And cool.” The man with the scar turns to Chris. “I’ll go with you.”

 

Isaac sputters.  “No. No you don’t need to do that.  You shouldn’t—“

 

Chris interrupts.  “Yes, that’s fine.”

 

Isaac’s eyes startle wide but Chris just nods and stands.  “I need to let Peter know I’m leaving. You should—“

 

But the man with the scar is already heading toward the living room.  Chris stands and starts after him. Isaac touches his arm. “Don’t you think he should—“

 

Chris shakes his head.  “Better with me.”

 

He places a hand on Isaac’s head before quickly moving into the living room.  The man with the scar is whispering to his drowsily blinking partner . He leaves it to them and walks into Beah’s room, closing the door behind him.

 

Josephine is asleep because she is somehow the poster child that all other children hate for setting impossible standards.  Chris can still feel the weariness in his shoulders from hours of endless walking back and forth the living room with a colicky Allison.  When Josephine was first born he would wake in a panic, reaching a hand out to feel the steady rise and fall of her chest, the puffs of breath from her nose, just to make sure she was still alive.

 

Peter is pulling a shirt over his head.  He isn’t happy at the change of plans, but he recognizes the logic and only grumbles mildly as he helps strap Chris’ shoulder holster back in place.   Chris leaves the flash bomb and the dagger, but returns the garrote to his ankle.

 

“Be safe,” he murmurs to Peter, to which Peter responds, “Return in one piece or I’ll be very upset.”

 

Peter follows him into the living room, where the Isaac that belongs to the man with the scar glares suspiciously at Chris.  The man with the scar snorts at that before saying merrily. “It’s fine babe. Mutual hostage situation. Right?” He directs that last bit at Chris, who refuses to respond.

 

Then they’re out the door and in the car and for several long minutes there’s no noise but the man with the scars fingertips, beating a rapid, non-rhythmic beat against the window frame.  It’s only when the house is no longer visible, and they’ve turned onto the main road that Chris breaks the silence.

 

“I have some questions for you.”

 

The man with the scar gives a dramatic gasp.  “No! Le Shock! Le Surprise! I had no idea this would happen! Especially not after your totally not obvious at all maneuvering to get me out of the house!”  Then he smiles, sharp and knowing and humorless, cementing Chris’ knowledge that he was right to judge him the most dangerous of the two. The other Isaac might momentarily lose control, but it’s unfocused, quick. And he’s consistently been horrified at himself.

 

The man with the scar has never acted unpurposefully, never without a clear plan. And he has never once remotely seemed sorry for his aggression.

 

“First,” Chris says, changing lanes to pass a slow moving vehicle, “I need to know.  Does your Isaac hurt you?”

 

The man with the scar blinks and then cackles.  “Seriously?” He gasps out between laughs, “Did you seriously just ask me that?  Are you  _ sure _ you didn’t just pass between dimensions?”

 

Chris keeps his eyes on the road.  “Last night he said—“

 

“I heard what he said.  No, he doesn’t hurt me. Yes, he has hurt me in the past. And I’ve hurt him. The first time I kissed him was seconds after I punched him a good seven times. And yeah, he threw me into a few walls before that.”

 

Chris opens his mouth but the man with the scar cuts him off unceremoniously.  “It’s easier if you understand we were soldiers in a war and we were fighting for different sides. In war shit happens. And sometimes it takes a long time to figure out you aren’t on the right side.”

 

“And whose side was wrong?”

 

“It doesn’t matter. But the answer to your real question is no, Isaac doesn’t hurt me. Don’t ask again.”

 

Chris isn’t satisfied, but he also understand the analogy better than he thinks this man realizes.  He taps his fingers on the steering wheel for a good five seconds before he speaks again.

 

“What is my relationship with Peter in your world?”

 

The man with the scar laughs again, this time even more ugly than the first.  “I was wondering when we’d get to that.”

 

**************

 

Stiles waits to see how this Chris will react. Whether he’ll clam up rather than give Stiles the satisfaction of answering his charge. But he doesn’t take the bait, just returns mildly, “Well?”

 

Which takes a lot of fun out of it, but also makes Stiles actually have to consider his answer.  He finally answers begrudgingly, “It wasn’t great when we first knew you.” Stiles shrugs and stares out the window, tracing Isaac’s name onto the glass.  “I think it might have been better once.”

 

“But something happened.”  

 

Stiles turns to Chris’ profile, which is stoic as he steers the car in and out of traffic.  He debates the multiple ways he could answer but ultimately settles on his own question.

 

“Where’s Kate?”

 

Chris jolts at that, and Stiles is pleased he’s been able to shake him.  It’s rare he gets that from their own Chris.

 

“Why are you asking?”

 

“Hey, I answered your questions, dude.  Quid pro quo, okay?”

 

“We aren’t...close.  Last I heard she was living somewhere in Mexico.”

 

Stiles checks the road around them, making sure the road is currently clear of other cars.  “In our world Peter murdered her. Which is only fair since she murdered most of his family.”

 

**************

 

Stiles wakes up to Beah lying on top of him breathing in his ear, “Am I allowed to be awake yet?”

 

He groans and sits up, lifting her with him and setting her on the bed beside him. “Hold on Beah.”

 

“Because the sun is up, and when the sun is up I’m allowed to wake Daddy up, but not you. Daddy says you need more sleeps because you’re more d’licate.”

 

Stiles rubs the sleep out of his eyes and checks his watch. 6:14 AM. “He does, does he?”

 

“Uh huh,” Beah says, “I snuck out of bed and Daddy is in the living room with Uncle Peter.”

 

Ugh. Why did he marry into a family that woke up ungodly early. He sits up and pulls on a t-shirt because those proxies are not seeing his tattoo. He so isn’t in the mood for another life to life revelation at this hour. Particularly after hearing what happened last night while he was in the garage with Peter. He hops out of bed and says, “Bay Bay we’re going to play a game.”

 

“Daddy says mornings are too early for games,” Beah says suspiciously.

 

“Daddy says all sorts of silly things when I’m not around doesn’t he? The game is that any money you can find in Daddy’s bedside table, you get to keep and buy whatever you want at WalMart. Just keep looking until I come get you. Deal?”

 

Beah squeals. “Deal!” and tumbles of Isaac’s side of the bed and starts searching. 

 

As Stiles leaves the room he hopes that Isaac is sticking to keeping his stash in the garage and he hasn’t just scarred his daughter for life or committed some terrible parenting sin. 

 

It’s early. He’s doing his best. 

 

No one is in the living room so he checks the kitchen. In it he finds Isaac in his running clothes standing by the fridge, watching Peter and Proxy Isaac at their kitchen table. Peter is delicately peeling an apple with a knife while Proxy Isaac watches him, distractedly eating a bowl of oatmeal. 

 

The almost childlike energy Isaac had toward his Proxy is gone, and he watches him suspiciously now. When they talked the night before, Isaac glossed over Proxy Isaac saying he had hurt Proxy Stiles, and Stiles suspects it is bothering him more than he would allow himself to feel. Hell it’s bothering Stiles. Of course it is. 

 

But for Isaac? Who has never fully shaken the fear of continuing the cycle of abuse? Hearing that from another version of  _ himself  _ has to be bothering him more than he can handle. Stiles knows Isaac, he knows he is folding it up and putting it in a drawer so he won’t have to deal with it and it would come out another way. 

 

Stiles has to hope it's some misunderstanding, and that this Isaac hadn’t really hurt Stiles. Isaac is so afraid of hurting him or Beah that he sometimes freaks out about normal things, like closing a cabinet on Stiles’s hand, or tripping over Beah when she plays snake on the rug. He's still Isaac, and crazy werewolf world or not, Stiles has to believe that Isaac wouldn’t hurt him. 

 

Still, he understands the air of suspicion and tense energy in the room. He is sure he contributes some himself as he walks in and gets Isaac’s attention. He kisses him, briefly putting his hand in Isaac’s sweaty hair before pulling out and wiping his hand on Isaac’s face. 

 

“It is so gross that you run,” he says, “Look what it does to you.” 

 

“Shut up,” Isaac says, only keeping his eyes on Stiles for a moment before looking back at the kitchen table.

 

“Why don’t you take a shower so you stop being so damn gross?”

 

“I don’t--”

 

“Honestly, my sweet step-son,” Peter says, “Do you not trust that Stiles and I can handle anything that this one has to offer?”

 

Proxy Isaac starts, and Stiles isn’t sure if he should be as surprised as he is that Peter is speaking this explicitly about the situation. “He’s a werewolf,” Isaac says like they’re stupid. 

 

“I’m not going to do anything,” Proxy Isaac says peeved. “I’m eating oatmeal.”

 

Stiles nods, “See that? He’s eating oatmeal. We made a truce and we’re going to keep it and that means that you get to shower.”

 

Isaac starts to say something stops himself. “Are you sure?” he asks.

 

“Isaac,” Stiles says pulling close to him and whispering in his ear, “take a fucking shower.”

 

So he does. 

 

“Chris and the alt you are out shopping,” Peter says, “Though I shudder to think what stores are open at this hour in this neighborhood.” 

 

“The WalMart is open,” Stiles says helpfully. Chris being gone doesn’t make him want to let Beah out of their room. He doesn’t know Peter that well, and while he does give off some rogue energy, he’s not confident that Peter could throw down if it came to it. 

 

“WalMart,” Peter says derisively, “I remember when you were a hideous young hipster. What happened to you?”

 

“I had a baby and took a huge paycut,” Stiles says, “WalMart is the bomb dot com.” 

 

Almost as though reacting to hearing the word “baby” Josephine lets out a cry that cuts across the entire house and has Peter out of his chair in an instant. 

 

“My daughter is calling me,” he says, “Can I assume you two are less needy than a baby and can handle being left alone?”

 

“Jesus Christ, Peter, we aren’t--” Stiles starts but Peter is gone before he can continue. Proxy Isaac watches him go. 

 

Proxy Isaac taps his spoon against his bowl. “Are you just going to stand there?”

 

“Do you want me to sit down?”

 

“It’d be less weird than you just staring at me,” Proxy Isaac says. 

 

Stiles walks to the other side of the kitchen so that at least he’s not behind Proxy Isaac’s back but doesn’t sit down. 

 

Proxy Isaac stares into his bowl of oatmeal--obviously prepared by Isaac because there’s apple slices and raspberries in it--before he looks up at Stiles. “He told you what happened last night?”

 

“He’s my husband, he tells me everything,” Stiles says, trying to channel Chris and stay calm. 

 

Proxy Isaac looks towards the front door like he’s hoping someone--Proxy Stiles--will 

walk through. “I’m sorry,” he says, “I lost control. It hasn’t happened in years but when it does--I know I said things that you might find upsetting.”

 

“Yes,” Stiles says, “Things that concern me. Things that concern Isaac. Look I’m willing to give you the benefit of the doubt, yeah? Because six months ago Isaac yelled at me for forgetting to buckle Beah’s seatbelt and then had a fucking meltdown because he’s  _ terrified  _ of being like Creek. And I’ve tried everything. I’ve done more research on the cycle of abuse than I think any non-expert has and I’ve done everything but given him a fucking powerpoint on protective factors that he has. Not that I haven’t made the damn powerpoint. But I know him, and I know that’s not what he needs and this is  _ not what he needs. _ ”

 

He feels like shit because Proxy Isaac looks like he’s in horrible pain and he’s looking at the door desperately waiting for Proxy Stiles to come through. 

 

“Stiles explains it better,” he says. 

 

“I’m not accusing you of anything,” Stiles says, “I know you’re Isaac, I know that Isaac would never hurt me. Right? You wouldn’t hurt Stiles?”

 

“ _ No,”  _ Proxy Isaac says, “I never want to hurt him.” 

 

“If there’s an explanation for all this, then fucking tell him okay? Isaac, my Isaac. Tell him so he doesn’t think that there’s a world where he hurts me.”

  
  
  
  
  
  



	16. Chapter 16

On one hand - one sick, sick hand--Isaac loves it.  Loves that finally someone is looking at him the way that Stiles has always refused to.  That someone is looking at him with the same horror with which he sees himself in his darkest moments.  It’s almost...gratifying, in a way. Like a nudge, wink,  _ look I was right _ justification of all his self hatred.

 

But they’re wrong. They’re looking at the thing Derek made, not the thing Stiles stole, and he hasn’t been what Derek made for many, many years.  Probably never was that thing, years of painstaking therapy has taught him. Only convinced of it because it better served Derek’s needs. And he knows and believes that with almost every part of his brain.  So he needs to explain.

 

He nods at Stiles 2.0  “Okay. Okay.”

 

Then he finishes his oatmeal while the 2.0 stares at him with squinty eyes and doesn’t try to make small talk.  Peter wanders back in, baby in arms.

 

“I am letting Beah rot her brain with Netflix” he says easily.

 

2.0 nods.  “Isaac will complain but she’ll live.”

 

Isaac pushes his bowl away and holds his hands in his lap.  He doesn’t hate Peter the way Stiles does but he doesn’t feel close to him either.  “Can he leave?”

 

Peter snorts and opens the refrigerator, pulling out a jug of nursery water and setting it on the counter.  He produces a container of formula from seemingly thin air and sets to making a bottle. “No.”

 

Stiles 2.0 makes a face.  “Peter, don’t you think JoJo would rather—“

 

Peter spins around, the humor gone from his face.  “No, I don’t. I have made very specific promises to my husband, and I can assure you they carry more weight than anything you might want.  So,” Peter waves his hand airily and the intensity disappears, “Feel free to carry on.”

 

The awkward silence continues as Peter makes the bottle with one hand and holds JoJo in the other.  Isaac’s arms twitch and he rubs one thumb in circles on his other palm. He almost asks if he can help by holding the baby but he stops, certain Peter will say no.  He can’t deal with that right now.

 

Finally, his 2.0 comes into the room, hair still damp.  “Why is Beah watching Netflix?”

 

Stiles 2.0 shrugs.  “Executive decision.”

 

Isaac clears his throat and Isaac 2.0 jolts, then moves a step, effectively positioning himself in front of Stiles 2.0.  Isaac gets it. He earned this reaction with his stupid mouth.

 

“Um...can you just...maybe sit down?”  He gestures to the chair across from him then immediately puts his hands back in his lap.  His leg starts jiggling and he forces it still.

 

“I need to start the bread dough.  It won’t have time to rise if I don’t start it now.”

 

“Please.  I just...I want to explain…”

 

“It’s cool I don’t need you to.  I do need to start the bread dough though.”

 

Isaac gets help from an unlikely source.

 

“Isaac,” Peter says matter of factly, “we have to go steal a phurba.  I don’t think you need to worry about bread this week.”

 

His 2.0 looks crushed, as if he had never even considered the possibility.  Isaac feels guilty for ruining this, too, but then mentally gives himself a shake.  This is not his fault. He is not responsible for how other people react. Dr. Martin would be so proud.

 

Stiles 2.0 reaches out and gives his 2.0’s hand a quick squeeze before withdrawing.  Isaac wonders how they survive with how little they actually touch each other. He feels starved just by osmosis.

 

But his 2.0 finally sits.

 

“Thank you,” Isaac says.  He looks at the space between his 2.0’s eyes.  “I want to explain. To do that I have to tell you the story.  And I need to do it in a straight line, not just allude or make references. Which isn’t a thing I really do.  So I just need you not to interrupt, okay?”

 

Nobody responds which he decides to take as an affirmative.  He swallows and takes a deep breath and keeps his eyes on the bridge of his 2.0’s nose.  His palm stings with the friction of his thumb but he doesn’t stop.

 

“I think if it had just been Creek I would have survived.  Like it would have sucked and I would have been messed up, but once he died I would have been okay.  I would have been more like you. But it wasn’t just Creek. Derek found me, and Derek turned me, and you know...you know how angry we got sometimes because of Creek?  How we got in fights and shit?”

 

He doesn’t know exactly how he knows this is as true for Isaac 2.0 as it was for him, but he does.  When his 2.0 doesn’t answer, even when he’s silent, he’s forced to actually focus on his face. Isaac 2.0 frowns.

 

“You told me not to interrupt.”

 

“Oh. Oh.  Um, yeah you can answer that?”

 

“Then yes.  I know.”

 

“Okay.  Okay, cool.  Derek...after he turned me.  And he didn’t...It wasn’t like  _ Peter,  _ okay?  Derek asked.  He told me it would make me strong and keep me safe and that Creek wouldn’t be able to hurt me anymore.  And then he asked. And I— I said  _ yes _ , okay?  I said yes.  But he didn’t...he didn’t tell me all the bad parts.  Like how people would try to fucking  _ kill _ me.  Do you know how many times I almost died that first year?  Or how all the anger and all the rage and all the new power would get tied up in the werewolf part and it was...sometimes I thought there were two of me.  The  _ me  _ me, trapped on the inside, screaming and yelling at me to stop, and the  _ other _ me, who wasn’t afraid of anything and could  _ do  _ anything.  And how all that  _ power _ —“

 

He stops because he’s getting off track.  “Jesus, Erica and I practically—“

 

Isaac 2.0 makes a noise and Isaac jerks his head up from where he’s been tracing the grain in the table.  “What?”

 

His 2.0 looks green but shakes his head. “Nothing.  Nothing. Keep going.”

 

Isaac sighs and slumps in his chair, tucking his hands under his legs because his palm has started bleeding and he needs to let it heal.  “It started...I don’t think it was supposed to be— I think it would have been fine if it had been Scott. If Derek had been like Scott and taught us how to be in control and how to channel it and how to I don’t know...not be  _ assholes _ .  But Derek...Derek  _ encouraged  _ It.  It was only when it-- when it got in his way--” He rubs the inside of his arm them forces himself to stop as soon as he’s conscious of it.  “He broke my arm once because-- But it wasn't-- he didn't hurt me any worse than Creek until-- ”. He makes an aggravated sound because the story is always so much more than its parts.

 

“Derek wasn’t supposed to be in charge.  I didn’t know that then but I know that now.  I just thought he was like this...like this all powerful  _ god.   _ Like the power of life and death was in his hands.  But he wasn’t supposed to lead anybody. He wasn’t. It was supposed to be Laura.”  He stares determinedly at absolutely nothing. “But Peter killed Laura and Derek killed Peter and then Derek had all this power and it made him just as crazy as Peter.”

 

**************

 

Peter Hale is no stranger to standing by while wholly inaccurate accusations are leveled against him. 

 

He’s been tied to a pole with truly subpar handcuffs while his captors discussed who got to strike the first blow for a theft that he had absolutely no part of. And he was silent, waiting for the right moment to reveal who they were truly after. If he did it right, they would give him a cut of the reward.

 

He did it right. 

 

This extravaganza has been nothing short of exhausting from the moment Malia called them in the middle of Josephine’s tummy time. Chris was being pushed beyond where Peter thought anyone had any right to ask for him to go, and Stiles and Isaac--who Peter had come to admit that he cared for--were reckoning with other worldly versions of themselves who Peter did not find nearly as charming. 

 

Alt Isaac was forcing himself through a story that Peter found difficult to listen to. He knew based on the existence of the phurba that other worlds existed but he didn’t think that they would be quite so  _ specific  _ and the role he played in them would be more reviled than his in this world. 

 

“I suppose this explains,” he says, “Your Stiles’ reaction to me.”

 

His Isaac and Stiles whip their heads towards him. “We said we weren’t going to interrupt,” Isaac snaps.

 

“You said,” Peter corrects, “I was making a bottle for my daughter, I said no such thing.” 

 

“Well then say it, Peter,” Stiles says, “Agee that you aren’t going to interrupt him again and let him talk.” 

 

Peter sighs. “If I had a hand free I would raise it in surrender.” He makes a point of looking at Alt Isaac. “I will not interrupt you again unless it is truly necessary.” 

 

Alt Isaac looks surprised but nods. “Sorry,” he says, “I mean, I know you aren’t same Peter.”

 

“It’s fine,” Isaac says for him, “We know things are different there.” 

 

Alt Isaac nods carefully. Peter hasn’t missed the signs of distress he’s been trying to hide throughout the story, up to sitting on his bloody hands. He looks lost, his gaze volleying from spaces between them and down to his empty bowl of oatmeal. 

 

“Derek went crazy with power,” Isaac reminded him gently, “He hurt you.”

 

“Right,” Alt Isaac says tightly, “He thought he needed to fight for power with Scott so he used us--me, Erica and Boyd, to do that. And Stiles was on Scott’s side, and--I  _ hurt  _ Stiles. You can’t imagine--I felt like I  _ had  _ to. It was like my life depended on it. And I would never now. Never. But back then, it was like every day was a war. Derek was--he was obsessed with Stiles. He thought Stiles belonged to him.”

 

Stiles lets off a choked off sound, his eyes going wide. He waves his hand, communicating for Alt Isaac to go on even past the horror on his face. 

 

“He wasn’t like that here,” Alt Isaac says, not asking. “But he was fixated on Stiles. And he knew he could use me. I didn’t have anything else holding on to me, no parents, no friends. So he used me to watch Stiles. I hid in his backyard and-- _ I know it’s weird _ \--but that’s how it started.”

 

Isaac nods, these words familiar somehow to him while Stiles looks scandalized and is hiding it badly. 

 

Alt Isaac takes a shuddering breath, “When I said I hurt Stiles. It wasn’t that I hurt him to gain power, or control over him.” With these words he looks right at Isaac, “I don’t want that. I don’t want to control anyone. Not really. Not the real me. But back then, I didn’t know what else to do. When Erica threw him against the wall with the nail,” he makes a face as he says it like it causes him pain, “gave him that scar. I didn’t stop her. I didn’t--I loved him I should have stopped her but I didn’t.”

 

Isaac looks like he wants to say something desperately say something but stops himself. Alt Isaac catches him, “What?” he asks.

 

“Is it okay if I--?”

 

“Yes,” Alt Isaac says. 

 

“You only hurt Stiles on the order of your abuser?” Isaac says. 

 

Alt Isaac shakes his head, “I don’t want to take no responsibility. I’ve--other times. I’ve knocked him out of bed and blackened his eye.”

 

“When you were having a nightmare?” 

 

Alt Isaac nods. 

 

“Dude,” Stiles says, not looking at all remorseful for breaking the interrupting rule, “There’s a reason I don’t have a bedside table. Give yourself a pass for that.” 

 

Alt Isaac looks unsure. He takes his hands out from under his legs and quickly checks and Peter is unsurprised to see that they are unharmed save for the streaks of blood. 

 

“Derek shouldn’t have done that to you,” Isaac says. 

 

Alt Isaac nods. “I know. It was wrong of him. He--he fucking tried to turn me into monster. But I’m not one. I’m not that person. I would never hurt Stiles now.”

 

Isaac looks back at Stiles and then looks at Alt Isaac. “Okay,” he says, “me neither. I know it’s easier for me to say that, I know we weren’t in a war. But--not to be a selfish asshole but just so you know. Neither of us have hurt Stiles. Or Beah. We’re doing it.”

 

Isaac looks at Peter, gently bouncing a baby in his arms as he feeds her a bottle.  Christ, in this world even  _ Peter _ gets to be a good parent.  At this point he wouldn’t be surprised if Derek strolled through the door with a set of twins and a parent of the year award. But Creek’s still shit here, and Gerard’s still shit here, which means DNA has to account for something across realities. Which also means the rest of them have just somehow figured out how to...to  _ hack _ it...how to do it better.

 

He stares at his empty bowl of oatmeal and wishes for Stiles.  But Stiles can’t always be there, so he sighs and nods and squints up at his other self.  Who wears glasses apparently. He supposes he wins on that genetic pool.

 

“Thanks for that.  I know...like I know that logically. I know Stiles and I are good now. We’re doing...you know, all the things.  I mean, except that thing.” He nods to Josephine. Peter glances up at him just long enough to acknowledge his presence before seemingly turning all of his attention back to his child.  Isaac isn’t fooled. He’s pretty sure Peter’s attention hasn’t wavered since Chris left. He and Stiles are on the same page in that they’re both pretty sure everyone but Chris is severely underestimating this Peter’s capabilities.

 

“You’re good parents,” He says firmly to the 2.0s.  “You probably don’t need me to say that, but you are.  Beah’s lucky. Thanks for letting me know that in some universe I’m not a complete fuck up with that.”

 

**************

 

Chris is parked on the side of the road. Stiles can see that the idea that his sister burned down the Hale house--whether it’s true here or not--is seriously bugging him.

 

 “That’s not what happened here.”  His voice is scarily intense, but Stiles has had a decade to get immune to scary intense.  “I never knew Peter until long after— That’s not what happened here.”

 

Stiles doesn’t take his eyes from Chris.  “You’re telling me the Argents and the Hales never met?”

 

Chris doesn’t answer and Stiles hums from the back of his throat.  “That’s what I thought. Where’s Talia? The rest of the Hales?”

 

Chris continues to look out the windshield.  “Cora lives in Chicago. We aren’t sure where Laura is right now.”

 

Stiles has no idea who this Cora is, but what Chris doesn’t say speaks just as loudly as his words.

 

“They’re all dead, aren’t they?  Fifteen or so years ago? Big fire?”

 

“My sister had  _ nothing _ to do with that.”

 

Stiles taps his fingers across his knee cap and looks out the windshield with Chris.  “That’s funny. Our Chris said almost the exact same thing.”

 

**************

 

Chris pulls back onto the road.  Isaac is going to start stressing about not having food to feed their...guests.  He promised groceries and he will deliver. Plus, Peter will worry if he’s gone too long.

 

“Wow.  Huh. You’re just gonna let that hang then.”

 

He doesn’t answer until he’s safely merged into traffic and at a reasonable cruising speed. He passes the turn off for Walmart and navigates toward Honey Bee Produce instead.

 

The thing is, he actually  _ is _ fairly certain what happened to the Hales didn’t involve his family.  Not that, with the knowledge of hindsight, he believes Kate incapable, but she’d been in Malaysia at the time.  And while yes, he also now knows the Argents indeed had dealing with the Hales, it had mainly been between his father and Peter, who had just been coming into his own in his own particular...specialties.

 

So really, the opportunity or the motive just wasn’t there. He’s almost completely sure. But somewhere, in some reality, it had been.

 

“Kate burned down the Hale home in your reality.” He says it as a statement, not a question.

 

He sees Stilinski nod from the corner of his eye, and he can feel the weight of his ever present gaze on the side of his face. Chris ignores it and concentrates on driving instead.

 

“Yeah.”

 

“Gerard knew.”

 

“Gerard ordered it. Kids died. Human kids. Not just werewolves.”

 

Chris closes his eyes and immediately reopens them.  Traffic. He thinks of Josephine and Beah. Of Isaac and Allison. He thinks of Ev-- he thinks of his father and all the terrible, terrible things Argent Arms had been responsible for.  And how much, in the end, he was complicit in, once excuses were stripped away. Perhaps he should have thrown his therapy notebook in the overnight bag.

 

“Was I involved?”

 

**************

 

A part of Stiles thinks it’s hilarious that this Chris even cares.  It’s not like  _ he _ did it, even if their Chris had.  But this is still Mr. Argent they’re talking about, so of course he does. And Stiles has successfully managed to sow doubt about his family’s involvement in this world.  Wow. He really  _ is _ an asshole.

 

He’s okay with it.

 

“No.” He doesn’t draw it out or try to bait Chris. That’s just mean. “I think you liked them.  The Hales. Respected Talia, at least. Which is really weird for hunters. Even weirder for Argents. But you’re kind of a weird guy.  So I guess it makes sense.”

 

Chris pulls into a parking lot of a store that is definitely not Walmart and kills the engine.

 

“What,” he repeats again, “is my relationship with Peter in your world.”

 

Stiles finally answers truthfully, “I honestly have no clue. Everybody in Beacon Hills hates him.  I definitely hate him. I helped kill him, did I mention that?” He sees Chris’ look and hurries on, “But he’s totally back alive.  I mean in a really shitty non-con kind of method but yeah totally back alive. Where was I? Oh right. We all hate him. He pretty much tried to kill all of us lots and lots of time.  It was a thing for awhile.”

 

They walk into the most ridiculous rich person grocery store Stiles has ever seen.  Which somehow makes perfect sense. Chris doesn’t say anything as he wheels out a cart and starts down a wide, well lit aisle with wood accents and “Made local!” signs on at least half of the shelves.

 

“But in the last few years— There was the Kill Gerard thing, right? And honestly I’ve only ever seen him with you guys once or twice...you brought him when you set up our security system, which  _ still not okay  _ with having dinner with him fyi, and when we called you about the rougarou.  But...every once in a while you—“ he finally catches what he’s doing and corrects himself, “—I mean, Chris and Victoria— drop his name in totally normal conversations.  So, I mean, I don’t know.”

 

He looks suspiciously around him at the shelves.  “Dude. Is there anything with refined sugar here?”

 

**************

 

They don’t have enough food. 

 

There is nothing that stresses Isaac out like not having enough food. Especially when Beah is with them. Especially when they have guests. 

 

With Isaac’s story over, and his words rattling around his mind, Stiles kisses Isaac and says “I have to take a shower so I’m not the grossest person in this marriage,” and tries to leave him alone with Peter and the other Isaac. Isaac follows him to the bathroom. 

 

“What are you doing?” Isaac asks.

 

“What?” Stiles whispers, “You took a shower!”

 

“I don’t know what to do, we don’t have enough eggs.”

 

“Dude. We’re on good terms now, right? You heard his story. And he already ate.”

 

Isaac sighs. “I can’t believe you’re abandoning me.”

 

Stiles side steps and sticks his armpit in Isaac’s face which--gross--Isaac pushes him away. “If you really need me to stay I will, but you’re fine.” 

 

“I’m totally telling my Austin therapist about this.”

 

Stiles laughs. “No you are not! We’re totally not telling either of our therapists about any of this. If you don’t want to talk to them, watch TV with Beah until I get out. I’ll be fast.”

 

Isaac allows his husband to shower and goes back into the kitchen to find that no one is there. Paw Patrol is playing on the TV and in the living room he finds Beah on the couch with Peter and JoJo, holding Peter’s hand and narrating what is happening on the screen.

 

“That is Skye! She’s my favorite because she’s a girl and I love her.” 

 

The other Isaac is standing next to the couch, watching the television with his arms crossed. 

 

There went watching TV with Beah to get a break. 

 

Isaac clears his throat, catching the other Isaac and Beah’s attention. Beah grins at him and points to the other Isaac. “Look he’s still here! I was thinking he would go ‘way when I woked up but he’s here and he still looks like you. He’s still wearing your shirt! We need to change clothes every day, that’s what Papa says, so you should give him another shirt.”

 

Isaac nods. “That’s true Beah,” to the other Isaac he says, “Stiles is in the shower, but if you want to get in there after I can loan you some clothes?” 

 

The other Isaac nods, and when Isaac walks towards his bedroom he follows, but he stays in the threshold of the bedroom door, not crossing in. 

 

Their bedroom is small, smaller than Beah’s room even, with the bed taking up most of the room and their shared dresser along the wall closest to the door. “What’s that?” he says, pointing to the giant colorful canvas over their bed. 

 

“Malia did that,” Isaac says, sparing it a glance. 

 

“You have your husband’s ex’s painting above where you sleep? Where you--”

 

“Yes,” Isaac cuts him off, “And she’s not Stiles’ ex, she’s Beah’s mother.” 

 

He sorts though his clothes and comes up with a soft grey t-shirt and a pair of boxers. He doesn't know if this Isaac is the same as he is and can’t stand the feeling of most clothes on his skin. When he was single and had more disposable income, he bought nice clothes, sometimes designer because it was the softest. Now he scoured discount stores for buttery soft shirts and jeans that didn’t feel like fucking garbage. 

 

“Do you want pants or--”

 

“I’ll keep my own,” the other Isaac says, “There’s not that much blood on them.”

 

Isaac pauses, his brain taking a second to recognize the joke. “Ha,” he says sarcastically. He hands the other Isaac the bundle of clothes and gets up.

 

“Was the oatmeal enough food? We have muffins in the freezer I could microwave, or bagels.”

 

“I’m fine,” the other Isaac says. 

 

“Okay,” Isaac says, “well I need food, so if you wanted to keep watching Paw Patrol or,” he starts walking into the kitchen and Isaac follows him. 

 

It’s fucking weird to have a shadow that looks like him. “They’ve been gone for a while,” the other Isaac says while Isaac pulls a ziplock bag with whole wheat bagels out of the freezer and selects one. “Do you think they got lost or something?”

 

“No way. Chris practically spends a month a year here. It’s like his second base,” Isaac says, then makes a face considering, “Or third. Fourth, depending on how you look at it. He has this grocery store that’s a little further out that he likes, they probably just went there.”

 

The other Isaac nods tightly. Isaac sticks the bagel in the microwave and leans against the counter. He’s been up for three hours, but it feels like ten. “Listen, I know that must have like, sucked. Explaining all that. I know this sucks in general.”

 

The other Isaac shakes his head. “I needed to. What I said last night--it was a big deal. I needed to explain.”

 

“I’m glad you did,” Isaac offers, “Not that I’m glad any of those things happened.

 

The other Isaac nods again. He watches and Isaac slices the bagel and toasts it. Isaac looks in the fridge for the raspberry jam Chris and Peter gave them last time they were in town. “Did you make this?” the other Isaac asks, looking at the bagel. 

 

“Yeah,” Isaac says. 

 

“How do you even know how to do that?”

 

Isaac shrugs, “I used to work for a bakery that was basically a glorified bagel store. I’d make like a million bagels a night. That’s actually how Stiles and I met, I use to take the same train home in the morning that he took to work.” 

 

The other Isaac raises his eyebrows in surprise. “You just met randomly?”

 

“Yeah,” Isaac says, “I had the only empty seat next to me, and he came up and was him and convinced me to let him sit there. We talk about it all the time. If he had gotten on a different train car, or just not bothered me, we never would have met.”

 

“That’s like, some  _ fate  _ shit.” 

 

Isaac nods. He’s been thinking about this. “Well, the whole thing is. You’re from California, but for some reason I’m from Indiana and we still had these like, indelibly parallel lives, right down to who the guy we fell in love with is. It makes me think there are more universes and we end up with Stiles in all of them.” 

 

“He’s amazing,” the other Isaac says, “I hope that’s true.”

 

“Who's amazing?” Stiles asks from the hall, and Isaac cranes his neck to see him standing outside the bathroom toweling his hair. 

 

“The other Stiles,” Isaac says. 

 

“What about this Stiles?” Stiles asks. 

 

“You’re just okay.” 

  
  
  
  



	17. Chapter 17

 

Chris pulls up up to the house, back of the rented SUV crammed full of groceries.  Isaac can’t protest, not when Chris has the excuse of  _ guests _ . The bags are filled with all of the things they might need, but also a good dose of the things Isaac and Stiles would want, but probably leave on the shelf for financial reasons.

 

He and Stilinski hadn’t talked any further about Stilinski’s world, just gone up and down the aisles, Stilinski either jabbering inanely about Chris’ food selections or making fun of what he called the “ambiance” of the store.  Chris doesn’t understand why wanting a decent selection of food from sources he can know and approve of warrants ridicule, but it was there, in the grocery store, that Stilinski reminded him most of Stiles.

 

He shuts off the engine and pops the trunk, eager to get to Pete. As he opens the door, Stilinski puts a hand on his arm.  Chris looks at the hand, then at Stiles face, eyebrow raised. Stilinski gingerly retrieves his hand before speaking.

 

“Out of fairness, there’s something else you should know.”

 

Chris forces his muscles to stay loose and relaxed.

 

“Once Mr. Argent found out what happened, he tried to fix it. He helped us fight Kate, and then Gerard and he’s basically, like, the protector of Beacon Hills now. He and Victoria and Allison.  It was really hard for him, I think, to overcome, you know,” Stilinski does a vague hand wave, “but he did it. He changed what it meant to have the Argent name. Everybody knows they can go to an Argent for help.”

 

Then he nods, almost to himself, before hopping out the door.  “Anyway, I need to go make sure Peter didn’t kill everybody while we were picking up fancy lettuce.”  He opens the trunk, loads up his arms with paper bags, and heads inside.

 

Chris follows suit, and hands full of groceries, walks inside. It’s immediately obviously the tension of last night and this morning has somehow disappeared.  Stilinski’s Isaac is sitting cross legged on the floor, playing pattycake with Beah. His clothes are changed and his hair is still damp so he must have showered.  Stilinski has dropped his bags in front of the door and is now sitting beside Beah and his Isaac, eyes fixated completely on their interaction. Isaac and Stiles are sitting on the now folded up couch, not watching Beah as closely as he would have expected this morning, while Backyardigans plays in the background.

 

And Peter.  Peter is standing in the doorway between the kitchen and the living, rocking back and forth with a nearly sleeping Josephine nestled against his shoulder.

 

Chris puts his bags down on the floor next to Stilinski’s.  He walks straight to Peter, cradles his face between his hands, and kisses him on the mouth, solid and real. It’s brief, and chaste, and perfectly acceptable for polite company, but it’s far more physical affection than they generally display in front of his children, far more than he generally displays in front of anyone unless he’s drunk.

 

“Oh my,” Peter says when he pulls back. The glare he directs over Chris’ shoulder at Stilinski is positively venomous.  “What did he do?”

 

“Nothing to worry about,” Chris soothes quietly.  “Is she ready to be put down? If so, you can help me make brunch.  Did you hear back from your contact yet?”

 

“Yes. Yes. And yes. The phurba is currently located in a ridiculously tiny town in North Carolina.  I have no idea why Deucalion is slumming there.”

 

The Alt men startle from where they are sitting on the floor with Beah. “ _ Where _ ,” Alt Stiles asks, “in North Carolina.”

 

“Oh that’s right,” Peter says, tapping his chin with one hand. The effect as such is minimized by the baby in his other arm. “You two are from North Carolina, are you not?”

 

“You know we are,” Alt Stiles snaps. “Where in North Carolina?” 

 

“Silly little town, ‘Saluda,’’’ Peter says, “This from a man who ones had his sights set on controlling San Diego. Another subpar town, but still.” 

 

Peter never had much respect for Deucalion; at his prime he was a melodramatic power grabber with no respect for history. He is not surprised that he was clutching onto the phurba--for its power, no doubt, more than its beauty--but he is surprised that he had slid down to live in an unrespectable town. 

 

“Have you been there?” Stiles asks the alts.

 

The alts have given up any pretense of playing with Beah, and she whines and grabs at Alt Isaac’s hands. Alt Isaac keys his attention onto her and continues playing with her, glancing up at Peter as he does. He’s working at something. He’s trying to prove that he is competent. Any fool could see it. 

 

With Alt Isaac distracted, Alt Stiles answers, “That’s where we live. And it’s not a town you  _ slum in  _ it’s our home.”

 

“Well,” Peter hedges, “It is slumming for Deucalion. I assure you, if he is there it is not entirely his choice.” 

 

“Saluda is full of supernatural activity,” Alt Stiles says, “We’ve run into all kind of nonsense since we’ve moved here, more than we had since Beacon Hills. Maybe there’s more supernatural there in this world too.” 

 

“That doesn’t make sense,” Stiles says, “I grew up in Beacon Hills and there was nothing supernatural happening. Believe me. I would have known. Anyway, it doesn’t matter. Who is Deucalion?” 

 

Peter straightens up, the attention back on him. “Deucalion is a mid level--or perhaps now low level--fence for stolen artifacts. Some more supernatural others. There was a time where anyone needing a magic’d up artifact on the west coast, they were sent his way. Not that I had many dealings with him. He’s a truly smarmy man, as arrogant as he is melodramatic.”

 

“Imagine that,” Stiles says quietly. Isaac elbows him. 

 

Peter doesn’t react. He knows who he is to Stiles. It bothers him less than who he is to Isaac. 

 

“Can this man be reasoned with?” Chris asks. “Could we make a deal?” 

 

Peter inclines his head, “We may have to get creative.” 

 

Isaac sighs, “So I’m really not going to the farmers market?” 

 

**************

 

“Oh my God.  Dude.” Stiles rolls his eyes. He seriously doesn’t get this Isaac’s obsession with it. “It’s the farmers market.  Let it go.”

 

Isaac whips his head around, face aghast.  “ _ Stiles _ .  It’s his  _ job.” _

 

Of course.   _ Of course _ .  His boyfriend is such a cream puff.  Also likes eating them, but that’s beside the point.  He opens his mouth to hiss  _ traitor _ but he’s cut off by Beah suddenly launching herself at Isaac.

 

She wraps her arms around Isaac’s neck in a stranglehold of a hug and pronounces, “I like you.”

 

And Isaac doesn’t miss a beat.  He puts an arm loosely around her and smile openly.  “I like you too, Beah.”

 

Biologists are totally wrong.  Because Stiles definitely has ovaries and it’s suddenly 2015 and they are exploding all over the place.  Unfair. Completely unfair.

 

Beah looks up from Isaac’s neck and pokes a finger into Stiles’ cheek.  “Your face is doing a funny thing.”

 

He has no idea how his face looks, but it can’t be any worse than it looked forty five seconds ago when he had to see Mr. Argent kiss Peter with his own two eyes. He’s gonna have to start his own therapy just to deal with that.

 

He moves Beah’s finger from his face but doesn’t protest when she doesn’t let go of his hand and instead starts bending his thumb back and forth.

 

“And by creative you mean B&E, right?”

 

Beah looks over at other Isaac and Stiles.  “What does B&E mean?”

 

Other Isaac still looks mournful about his farmers market thing, so it’s other Stiles who answers.  “It means Bathing and Eating, Beah. Which we’ve all done except for you.” He directs that to Stiles, glaring as he does it.  “If you wanna shower I can get you a change of clothes.”

 

“I thought you had rules about lying to your offspring,” Peter offers lightly.

 

“We have rules about introducing her to a life of crime, too.  I think that’s the primary one.”

 

“I should see if Marge wants to sell the macaroons,” Other Isaac mutters, still in his own world.  “They could take a percentage of the profits.” Then he whips his head around to Chris. “We can drive, right?  You don’t expect anyone to fly. They don’t have IDs, so we can’t fly.” He looks even more upset, so Stiles decides to be a good guy and reassure him.

 

“We can use yours. We’re basically identical so if we take two different airlines it will be fine.  We can totally fly. Or you could just...not come? If the farmers market it really that much and you don’t think you’ll make it back?”  For some reason other Isaac looks even more green and starts to shake his head.

 

“We can’t fly,” Chris states emphatically.  “We need to be able to take certain items with us that TSA frowns upon.  But Stilinski is right. If necessary, Peter and I can do this alone. You and Stiles could stay here.”

 

Stiles almost looks around for his dad before he realizes Chris is talking about  _ him _ . On the heels of that realization is another one. Chris is hoping the other thems take him up on the offer to stay out of it.  He wonders if they have never actually seem Chris at work. He looks back at their other selves and waits.

 

**************

 

“Hold on,” Stiles says, gearing up to go against his father-in-law, “You’re going to bend space and time and you expect us to sit at home just because--no offense Cowboy--Isaac is a little upset about the farmers market? No. Eff that. We’re coming.” 

 

“There’s no reason for you to come,” Chris stresses, “And having both sets of you present risks our exposure even further.” 

 

“No reason for us to come?” Stiles repeats. “How about because this is our life, and we aren’t complete idiots. We can help. We can help and we aren’t leaving you alone with them.”

 

“So much for a truce?” Proxy Stiles says. 

 

“But Beah,” Proxy Isaac says, “She shouldn’t have to come. You’re not going to bring her are you?”

 

Stiles looks to Isaac who looks like he needs to lie down. He is probably still coming down from the idea that he may have to get on an airplane--something he’s avoided for all of his adult life--and now the confusion of Chris not wanting them there. 

 

“What if it’s part of the rules?” Stiles says, “We don’t know how it works, maybe we need to be there for them to be able to be sent back.”

 

“We don’t know that,” Peter says cooly. “Chris is right, there is no need for you to come.”

 

Stiles waves his hands up and down. “I don’t care! This is our lives, this concerns us. There are two doppelgangers of us walking around and I’m not going to sit around and not be part of the solution. Right?” He turns to Isaac, “Right?”

 

Isaac takes a deep breath. To Chris he says, “You don’t want us to come?” 

 

********

 

Chris quickly flips through is options.  Because the truth is, he  _ doesn’t _ want them to come. Primarily because he doesn’t want his son and son-in-law in danger, and there’s no way this trip won’t be dangerous. But secondarily, and just as important, he may be forced to a level of violence he isn’t sure he wants his son to ever associate with him. Disarming Stilinski and the quickly aborted fight that followed was a side of him he never wanted Isaac to see, and it barely registered in his brain as violence at all.

 

However.

 

However.

 

He is even more afraid that if Isaac hears him say ‘I don’t want you to come,’ he will instead hear ‘I don’t want you.’  And that’s an even bigger risk. It’s one in the end he’s unwilling to take.

 

So with barely a pause he says instead, “I want you to come.  I want you both to come. I just wanted to give you the option.”

 

Both Stilinski and Peter are giving him far too knowing looks, but Stilinski’s Isaac is the only one that speaks up.

 

“But not Beah, right?  And not...not Josephine either. That’s too dangerous, right?”  He looks at Stilinski and then at Chris as if to assure himself his gauging of the appropriate level of danger for babies is accurate.

 

“Yes, you’re right.  It is not a situation for children.” Not a situation for  _ either _ of his children, but he’s allowed that ship to sail.

 

**************

 

Isaac breathes a sigh of relief. He may have only just met Josephine and Beah, but he seriously doesn’t want them in danger. “But then what do you do with them? Can Malia—“

 

The other Stiles cuts him off.  “Malia’s back at base. We might be able to—“

 

Peter smoothly interrupts.  Isaac notes that Peter does almost everything smoothly. It’s intimidating, and another confirmation that this Peter is very like their Peter.  “We have someone a few hours south of Saluda that can watch Josephine and Beah for the duration of this...event. It can’t take that long. What?” He says in response to a look from the 2.0s, “We travel. Sometimes we need child care. It only makes sense to make connections.”

 

It sounds hinky to Isaac, and it must sound hinky to Stiles 2.0, too, because he laughs in a choked, disbelieving kind of way.

 

“So you have a random sitter that’s willing to take two kids for an unspecified amount of time on a moment’s notice.  And you think we should trust Beah with someone she’s never met. Someone we’ve never met.”

 

“Yes,” Peter says, this time stiffly, not smoothly.  “Because we trust her with Josephine. What was it you said about the crib and spiders, Stiles? Hmm? Now, should we put the groceries away before Chris’ carefully plotted shopping goes to waste?”

 

**************

 

In the kitchen they start putting items away. Stiles goes to the bedroom to get clothes for the other Stiles--”Maybe not something that could be seen from space?” the other Stiles suggested. Chris and Peter help because they know where everything goes, while the others stay in the living room, talking quietly to one another. 

 

Isaac pulls a giant bottle of olive oil that he knows cost most than a tank of gas. “Really, Dad?” he asks.

 

Chris looks calmly at him. “I didn’t know whether you had any.”

 

“We have the five dollar a bottle stuff.”

 

Chris just calmly puts the cage free eggs on the counter. “Then you didn’t have any.”

 

He digs through the bags and comes up with bags of cashews, a wheel of gouda, and gourmet popcorn Chris buys when he comes to Austin that Beah is obsessed with. There was even a bottle of Jack Daniels for Stiles, which was-- _ seriously _ ? Only some of the groceries are appropriate for a crowd, the rest were things that Chris seemed to have meticulously noticed over the years that they only rarely kept in the house. And he decided to buy all of it. 

 

“You know we can buy our own groceries right?” Isaac says, cradling a brie in his hands. 

 

“You are welcome, Isaac,” Chris said lightly. 

 

“You said I don’t have to thank people for things I didn’t ask them to do.”

 

“Did I? When?”

 

“When my guidance counselor tried to switch me into remedial biology.”

 

“That was an entirely different situation. Regardless, you don’t have to thank me, but I was at the store and I saw no reason not to get the things you like.” 

 

Cowed, Isaac puts the rest of the groceries away. He’s not sure why he’s being a dick to Chris. Except that he’s not totally convinced that Chris didn’t try to kick him off of the trip to get the phurba. Still, he’s stupid excited to have good cheese. When this is all over he can make baked brie which he hasn't made since Chicago.

 

“Thank you,” he says into a cabinet.

 

“It’s nothing,” Chris says, “I’m thinking a cheese strata? If you have bread.”

 

“We always have bread,” Isaac says. 

 

He and Chris get started on the main dish while Peter makes coffee and starts preparing to slice the fruit. 

 

“Do you want me to do it?” Isaac offers when Peter pulls a knife out of the drawer.

 

“I don’t know if you know this about me, dear step-son,” Peter says, “and hopefully this adventure won’t give me cause to prove it, but I do know how to handle a knife.” 

 


	18. Chapter 18

Proxy Stiles rejects the first three shirts Stiles offers him. It’s rude as hell. He finally accepts a mint green button up shirt, begrudgingly saying “I suppose they won’t see me from space in this.”

 

“I don’t know what it’s like in Saluda, but I am very stylish in Austin. Seriously. High. hipster. style.”

 

“Is that a good thing?” Proxy Stiles asks.

 

Stiles throws the shirt at him and leaves for the living room. Beah is on the floor with Proxy Isaac--they left her alone with him?--leaning against him and whispering in his ear. Proxy Isaac glances up at Stiles and seems to register his presence because he gently pulls Beah away from leaning on himself and settles her on the floor next to him. 

 

“What’s up Baby B?” Stiles chirps. 

 

“I’m not a baby!” Beah protests. “I have a secret, I tolded it to other Daddy.”

 

“You have a secret?” Stiles repeats, not thrilled that this secret was going to a proxy and not one of her fathers. “Do you want to tell me too?”

 

“Nu-uh,” Beah says, “Just Other Daddy.”

 

“I’m not your Daddy, Beah,” Proxy Isaac says, sounding distressed. From being called “Daddy”?

 

“Duh,” Beah says, “he doesn’t have a name except Other Daddy.”

 

“Oh, right,” Stiles says. He looks to Proxy Isaac. “What do you want her to call you?”

 

**************

 

It takes Isaac a minute to process that, because he’s still working on slowing the racing of his heart from Beah leaning in, one hand on his shoulder, and saying with a spit spraying whisper, ' _ I wanna tell you a secret but don't tell my daddies.’ _

 

In Isaac’s experience, a kid with a secret is almost never a good thing, and a kid with a secret they don't want their parents to know has often ended in some form or fashion on his lab table.  So he immediately starts bracing himself for a horrifying revelation, visions of Creek and Derek and Erica flashing through his mind.

 

That the secret is actually harmless, and kind of funny, hasn’t yet managed to sink into his trauma brain, and frankly he doesn't understand why in the hell Stiles 2.0 is being so low-key about it.  He’d be losing his shit if his kid had a secret they could only tell a stranger.

 

So yeah, it takes a minute.  But then he realizes both Stiles 2.0  _ and  _ Beah - juice sticky hand pressed against the side of his neck - are staring at him.

 

“Ummm…” he racks his brain frantically for an idea, because his middle name is probably the other Isaac’s, too, he wouldn't recognize a shortened “Zack” or “Zeke” if anyone tried to use it, and he’s never had a nickname unless he counts--

 

“Beah,” he says, “You can call me O.”

 

“The  _ hell  _ she can.” Stiles is leaning against the entryway of the little alcove that leads to the bathroom and the 2.0’s room. He still hasn't showered, he’s strangling a mint green button up in one hand, and he’s wearing his angry face.

 

“Stiles, it’s fine.  It doesn't bother me. It's what I am.”

 

“Not the way they used it.  Not when it’s an insult and a threat.”

 

Isaac smiles a little.  “Well they were wrong, weren't they?  I survived. Let’s call it reclamation.”

 

Stiles face isn't any less angry, even when Isaac adds, “It’ll be easy for Bay Bay to remember, won’t it?” He addresses the question to the tiny human who has moved from secrets to being a monkey climbing over his shoulders and flopping across him, her stomach resting on his head.  “And I’ll know it means me.”

 

“O, O, O,” Beah chants happily.

 

“Am I missing something?” Stiles 2.0 asks, looking between the two of them.

 

“Yes,” Stiles says shortly.  He’s watching Isaac now, a crease in his brow, and Isaac wishes he could smooth it out with his thumb.  Because he hadn’t lied. It doesn’t bother him, worry him, make him flashback to those awful days of being shouldered into lockers and knocked over on the lacrosse field or, on one memorable occasion, locked in a supply closet with Allison Argent.  All accompanied with some version of  _ Hey, O, watch where you’re going  _ or  _ Shit, O, tripping over your own feet? _ Or  _ Where’s your pack, O? Oh right, you don’t have one. _

 

Teenage bullies are teenage bullies, even when they’re teenage werewolves.

 

Isaac had chosen to wrap it around him as a mark of pride. Because he had a pack, and he had an alpha.  It just happened to be a human one.

 

“And what about you, other Papa?  What’s your name?” Beah flips and slides until she’s riding on Isaac’s shoulders.  Isaac raises an eyebrow and waits.

 

Stiles strangles the shirt a little bit tighter before taking a deep breath and coming the rest of the way into the room.  His angry face rearranges to his smirking face, which is one of Isaac’s personal favorites, and then he says, “You can call me Mischief.”

 

“Really?   _ Really _ ?” Stiles 2.0 quite obviously gets the reference.  “That’s what you’re going with?”

 

“Hey,” Stiles says firmly, “If he gets O, then I get whatever I want.”

 

“Yeah, and you still haven’t explained that one.”

 

“Don’t plan on it either.”

 

“Do you...do you _ enjoy  _ being an assho—“

 

“BAD WORD!” Beah yells, bringing the attention back on her.  She tugs on Isaac’s hair. “I want you to be my horse.”

 

Isaac squinches his nose and looks up at her.  “Do I have to? I don’t think I’m a good horse.”

 

“Yes,” Beah replies haughtily.

 

“What if I’m your wolf?  That way you can ride  _ and  _ we can fight all the monsters in the kingdom?”

 

Beah’s eyes spark with excitement.  “Yes, yes, yes. Can we be a wolf pack?”  She slides off his shoulders and crouches on hands and knees.  “Like this?”

 

“Ah...yes?”

 

Stiles makes a noise and Isaac looks up to find him watching him just as intently as when he’d returned from his supply run with Mr. Argent.  “What?”

 

“It’s a good thing I can’t actually make you pregnant, because I kind of want to drag you off and knock you up right now.”

 

“ _ Gross,”  _ 2.0 groans, but Isaac barely hears him, because his stomach swoops to his feet then up to his chest before settling in its rightful place.  It’s the first time Stiles has mentioned kids in  _ years _ .  

 

He cuts his eyes to Beah to make sure she’s not really honed in before answering.  “Yeah, it’s a good thing. Because I might let you.”

 

Stiles eyes darken.  “Yeah?” He asks hoarsely.

 

“Yeah,” Isaac responds, voice just as rough.

 

“WOLVES,” Beah demands.

 

“And shower.” This is from Peter, suddenly appearing from the kitchen.  “Because if you don’t hurry, we’ll eat without you.”

 

***********

 

Brunch is odd. 

 

Isaac has never cooked brunch for alternate versions of himself and Stiles that crashed into their lives, but he’s pretty sure it’s not supposed to be as civil as what they’re doing. 

 

Chris and Peter shower after the other Stiles and by the time everyone is set the stata is ready and the muffins are no longer frozen. 

 

“Damn,” the other Stiles says, “is this how you treat all your interdimensional guests?”

 

They set up in the living room even though  _ crumbs  _ because there's not enough seats in the kitchen. Not that there are in the living room but in the end only Beah and the other Isaac sit on the ground. 

 

Beah who is fixated on the other Isaac and insists he hold her hand while she messily eats with her right hand. 

 

Isaac notes this development and looks to Stiles who grins goofily and shrugs. The other Stiles is watching them intently as he eats his strata. 

 

Beah eagerly explains that the others’ names are “O” and “Mischief” to which Stiles rolls his eyes. 

 

“They didn't tell you their names before because they were afraid to but now they know you're nice so they told me!” she squeals. 

 

“That's not--” Isaac starts. 

 

Stiles interrupts, “That’s what they told her to call them.” 

 

“That's their  _ names,”  _ Beah corrects.

 

Weird. Mischief at least he knows the origin of, but he's never been called “O” or anything close to it. “Zac” occasionally and “Cowboy” from Stiles but never “O”. It had to be random, or another place their world’s diverge. 

 

“Okay,” Isaac says, going for agreeable, “that was nice of you to ask them Bay Bay.” 

 

“I know!” Beah exclaims. 

 

Peter waves his fork in the air, in an uncharacteristically undignified manner. “As heartwarming as it is to hear that you two have something as novel as  _ nicknames _ ,  perhaps we should return to the matter at hand. We are going to North Carolina. Given that flying is out I presume we are driving. We are taking the SUV and Stiles’ car?”

“You can return the SUV,” Isaac offers, “we can split up and take my car and Stiles car.” His car is newly back from the shop, and it probably won’t give them any trouble. 

_ Stiles  _ is the one who snorts at that. Isaac glares at him. “What? Cowboy, your 2001 Toyota can’t even make it across Austin reliably, we’re not taking it to North Carolina.”

Isaac feels his face flush. To his surprise the other Isaac glares at Stiles in his defense. Beah, still linked to him by her hand, chews her cheese strata oblivious. Stiles, however, notices.

“Seriously? Seriously. It’s just true.”

“You don’t have to be a dick about it,” the other Isaac says.

Beah lets go of his hand to throw her hands up dramatically, “Stop saying bad words! I’m only three!”

That gets a laugh even out of the other Stiles.

“Why don’t we save the planning for Beah’s TV time?” Chris suggests.

“She can’t have two TV times in one day,” Isaac protests. That’s like, in all the parenting books. That Chris gave him. Chris should know better.

“This situation is an override,” Chris says, “She will be just fine.”

“We’re going to a new place?” Beah says through a mouthful of food.

“Yeah,” Stiles says, “We’re going on a road trip.”

“To see Grandpa?” she asks, referring to Noah. “Is JoJo coming?”

“Yes JoJo is coming,” Stiles says, “No, we’re going to a new place with only strangers.” He directs that last part to Peter who breaks off a piece of his muffin delicately and ignores Stiles.

“Is O coming?” she asks loudly, “I want him to be in Papa’s car.”

They all look at each other. Without discussion Isaac knew that the others were going in Chris and Peter’s car, he just wasn’t sure where Josephine was going.

“O is coming,” Isaac says slowly.

“Yay!” Beah says, finding the other Isaac’s hand. Isaac isn’t sure whether it’s fair for him to be a little happy that Beah has totally taken to the other Isaac. It’s not like he’s the exact same person as him, and the other Stiles hasn’t tried to interact with her in the same way the other Isaac has. Still. It shows that even in other universes he’s not a total fuck up, he’s by some miracle good with kids, specifically his kid.

“‘O,’” Chris says, “is going to be in Grandpa and Uncle Peter’s car, you will see him when we stop for lunch and to stretch our legs.”

“Noo,” Beah moans, “I want him to be in my car.” She flops back dramatically. This is what she does. On a regular basis, she falls on the floor and lies there. Isaac is used to it but the other Isaac isn’t, and with lightning fast reflexes he catches her before she can fall more than a few inches, eyes flashing yellow for a hair of a second.

Beah notices. She gasps. “Your eyes!” she exclaims, “Are you a firefly?”

 

**************

 

Isaac freezes, jerking his head up to look at Stiles, and Stiles is pretty sure no one in the room is breathing for that second.  Then Isaac relaxes and sets Beah down and both Chris and Other Stiles open their mouths to speak. But Isaac beats them to it.

 

“Beah,” he says, “do you know what happens to your heart when you get scared?”  He’s using his science teacher voice which Stiles finds unbearably hot. Between that and the baby thing he’s really gonna have to insist they get some real privacy soon.

 

Beah nods wisely.  “It goes boom boom boom boomboomboomBOOM.  Papa’s does too when the panics attack.”

 

“Beah,” Chris starts quietly, but Isaac and Beah both ignore him.  Stiles takes another bite of his stata. He does  _ not _ get why Other Isaac seems weirdly ashamed of his baking abilities.

 

“Yep,” Isaac affirms Beah’s answer.  “My heart does that too when the panics attack.”

 

“Like Papa!”

 

Isaac catches Other Stiles’ eyes when he answers.  “Yes, like your Papa.”

 

Stiles loves seeing Isaac like this.  In his element, confident and in control of the situation. He goes for another bite of his stata then frowns when he realizes there isn’t any left on his plate.  Sadness.

 

“What happens to your eyes when you get sad? And sometimes when you get hurt or even mad?”

 

“Tears!” Beah responds triumphantly.  “‘Ronica said I was a big fat baby ‘cause I cried when I skin’ded my knee when I fell off the slide, but Mama said it’s nat’ral and evo...ev’lution’ry.  And that ‘Ronica should be happy we live in a society that doesn’t condone vi’lence.”

 

“I do like your Mother,” Peter offers into the conversation.  Chris looks like he wants to interrupt Beah and Isaac’s conversation but is too polite to do so.

 

“Yes!” Isaac confirms excitedly.  “It’s evolutionary. Something humans developed for survival.”  Stiles thinks this might be a little over the head of a three year old, but he actually doesn’t know much about child development so he could be off.  At the very least Beah appears to be hanging on Isaac’s every word.

 

“Do you cry when you’re sad?”

 

Isaac nods solemnly.  “Yes. It’s okay to cry if your body needs to.”

 

From the corner of his eyes he sees Peter elbow Chris and hiss “See?”

 

“Are you a firefly?”  Beah returns to her original question and Isaac shake his head with a small smile.

 

“No, but that would be cool, huh? The same evolution that helps us cry and our heart to race does other things, too.  For me, I got a genetic quirk that lets me make my eyes change color. Usually it’s only when I want to, but sometimes when I get scared or angry and I don’t know how to handle it it happens because my body thinks it needs to protect me.  Just like when we cry or laugh or our heart beats super fast and we weren’t even expecting it.”

 

Stiles is a little startled Isaac is talking about his pet project. He barely talks about it to Stiles, had only even told him about it a year or so ago, even though the idea of it had been rattling around in his brain since senior year of college. He isn’t sure if it’s because he’s getting more confident in his research or if Beah has just managed to worm that far beneath his defenses.   If Stiles ends up having to be the heavy in their totally hypothetical maybe never to happen parenting, he’s gonna be pissed.

 

“Will my eyes turn colors?” Beah asks, her voice a mix of suspicion and excitement.

 

Isaac shakes his head.  “No, I don’t think so, Bay Bay.”

 

“Do other people’s?”

 

_ Say no, say no _ , Stiles silently projects.

 

“I don’t know.  But if you ever see it, you should tell your Grandpa immediately, okay?”

 

“Hey, Einstein!” Other Stiles finally breaks the bubble. “Good job. Can't wait for the preschool to call about our kid’s 'overactive imagination.”

 

Beah honest-to-God gasps. “Papa! I wouldn’t tell! It’s a secret!  Like O’s name! Like the secret I telled O! O won’t tell and I won't tell!”

 

Other Isaac sucks in a harsh breath.

 

“Peter,” Mr. Argent’s voice is quiet, and when Stiles looks, his face is the eerie blankness that Stiles has learned means  _ their _ Argent is .5 seconds away from the rare occurrence of losing his shit. 

 

Isaac is nodding and looks almost relieved.  Stiles and his other self exchange a confused look.

 

Peter holds out his hand. “Beah, let's go pick out your clothes for our trip, shall we?  The rest of you should continue this in the kitchen. Quietly.” He and Chris hold each others gaze for a long moment before Peter nods.  “Let me know.”

 

**************

 

They quietly migrate into the kitchen, stacking plates in the sink. Stiles isn’t sure what just happened that took such a somber turn--Beah is three she can’t keep a secret but at least she understands that she can’t broadcast what Proxy Isaac just told her. 

 

No one sits down, so Stiles doesn’t either. Chris and Proxy Isaac stand across from each other, Proxy Isaac looking like he’s fighting not to hunch over and Chris with his arms crossed. Isaac takes his hand, which means--

 

What does it all mean? 

 

“What’s happening here?” he asks, feeling like a jerk. Everyone is so serious, even Proxy Stiles who studies Proxy Isaac, running his fingers over his collar bone. “Okay, so that Isaac probably shouldn’t have told Beah all that stuff-- _ thank you very much _ \--but she’s a smart kid. She can keep a--”

 

“No,” Isaac interrupts, his voice hard, “She’s three years old. There’s no good reason for her to have a secret.” He’s looking at the ceiling blinking. “We shouldn't have sent her to preschool. We should have kept her with us--”

 

“Isaac,” Chris says, his voice incredibly tight, “We don’t know what this is yet.”

 

“What is it?” Stiles asks, “Kids have secrets, I had a secret lint collection under my bed. Whoa. Shock. Okay? Didn’t you have a secret when you were little? Aren’t we respecting her privacy?”

 

“Yes,” Isaac says, “I did. I had a big secret. And it would have been fucking great if no one respected my privacy.” He shuts his eyes tight then takes a deep breath and looks at Proxy Isaac. “What is it? What did she tell you?”

 

Proxy Isaac shakes his head. “It’s not what you think. I promise.  It's not. It’s stupid. It’s so silly.”

 

“Shut up,” Isaac snaps. Stiles startles. It takes a minute for Stiles to sort out that this isn’t Angry Impulsive Isaac, this is Deadly Protective Isaac and all his hackles are raised. “We will decide if it’s silly.”

 

Now Stiles is on fucking board with what everyone was thinking.

 

“She stole a toy car from WalMart,” Proxy Isaac says quietly. “She said she did it when she was shopping with Mama and she put it in her shirt. She said it’s a secret because in preschool they said you aren’t supposed to take things without asking and she did, and she told me about it because she wanted me to take it with me when I leave.”

 

Chris’ razor sharp focus hasn’t wavered from Proxy Isaac, but Stiles swears he sees him take a breath. “That’s it?” he asks, “Nothing else?”

 

“No, I swear,” Proxy Isaac says, “I know. Believe me, I know how bad it can be when kids her age keeps secrets. I think she just didn’t want you to know about the car.”

 

“Why would Beah even have a concept of secrets?” Isaac asks no one in particular, “She’s three. We told her she could always tell us anything.”

 

Proxy Isaac shrugs, “School? Maybe? Friends? TV? I mean you didn’t raise her in a bubble--and that’s good.”

 

“Thank you,” Stiles says, heavy on the sarcasm. “Your approval of our parenting means the world to us.” To Isaac he squeezes his hand and says, “Honey, it sounds like it’s okay.”

 

“It’s not okay,” Isaac says, “If she’s keeping one secret from us, she knows how to do it and she could keep something worse from us.”

 

“She wouldn’t,” Stiles says, “She has three kickass parents, and it’s just a random fluke that she stole a hotwheels and decided to tell your proxy about it.”

 

Isaac doesn’t look sure. Chris doesn’t either. 

 

“Have you see any signs, anything that--”

 

“No,” Isaac cuts him off, “No, nothing.”

 

“Do you feel comfortable confirming that this is about a toy car, and Beah is fine?” Chris asks, not sounding entirely pleased himself. 

 

Isaac scrubs his free hand over his face and Stiles squeezes his other hand. He is so stupid sometimes. Isaac is so vigilant with Beah, so aware of the ways the world could hurt her that Stiles feels like a lackluster parent in comparison sometimes. But he knows how exhausting it must be for Isaac to always be watching for danger, always. Always. He is too, but in different ways and there are things that he just will never understand. 

 

“Okay,” Isaac says, “Okay.”

 

“I’m sorry,” Proxy Isaac offers, “I should have told you right away what it was, but I didn’t want to upset her.”

 

Stiles scoffs. “Believe me. You’re going to upset her. She’s a real dramatic kid, it’s just a matter of when.”

 

Somehow Proxy Isaac looks more pained at that idea than the fact that they were all literally just having a conversation about the possibility that someone had hurt Beah. Which he can’t possibly be, it must be that it’s just added pain because Proxy Isaac might be playing at it, but he’s not a parent and he’s not as hardy to Beah’s mood swings as they are. 

 

“You,” Chris says to Proxy Isaac, “Beah has chosen to confide in you. If she says anything else, any other secrets, you must tell one of her parents immediately.”

 

Proxy Isaac nods.

 

Proxy Stiles, who had been focused on his Isaac the entire time nods and looks around the room. “So. If we’re good. And tell me if we aren’t. But if we are--are we going to North Carolina?” 

 

**************

 

“Yes,” Chris says, doing his best to refocus on the current priority and not on the fact that for a few terrible moments he had had to wonder if someone had hurt his grandchild.  And not on the fact that he’s having to curb the impulse to find an excuse to take Isaac O from the room, to have privacy to tell him that he shouldn’t be upset at himself, that it was hard to know how to balance respect for children’s autonomy and the need to keep them safe, that he understood that Isaac O and Stilinski have probably had to keep multiple secrets from the people in their world in order to keep them safe.

 

Isaac O is not his child and Isaac O is only a priority in such that getting him back to his own world is necessary for the protection and wellbeing of Isaac.

 

“It will take approximately 17 hours to drive to Saluda. Regardless of what Beah wants-“ He shoots Isaac O a firm look, “-Isaac O and Stilinski will be riding with Peter and I.” The next part is trickier, and less decisive, but he and Peter had explored all the alternatives and ended on this. “Josephine will remain with Peter and I for the trip.”

 

When Stiles looks like he’s going to argue, Chris gives him the same firm look he gave Isaac O.  “This has been decided.” He takes a breath and moves on because they’ve wasted enough time and this needs to be put into motion.  “Normally I would suggest we make the drive in one day but as we have Beah and Josephine with us we will break it into two days. We want as few stops as possible and we will stop together for those, but we will stop.  We have children.”

 

“We get it,” Stilinski is leaning against the refrigerator, one hand drifting up and down Isaac O’s spine.  “Keep the kids happy.”

 

Chris ignores him.  “I think the optimal place to stop the first night will be in Jackson, Mississippi.  That will break us into approximately 8 hours days and get us to Lexington early enough to get the children settled.  We can decide whether or not to stay the night there, but either way, the travel time will get us to Saluda early enough to check into a hotel.”

 

“Dude.”  Stilinski again.  “We can’t stay in Saluda.”

 

Isaac’s eyebrows draw down.  “It can’t be that small. There has to be a hotel or at least an AirBnB.”

 

“Of course there is.  And in our world this really cool Bed and Breakfast that does a lot of honeymoon business.  But it is that small. You have no idea. And like...like…” He looks to Isaac O for help, who picks up the conversation.”

 

“It’s small in a southern way?  Like everyone knows everyone and world travels fast.  The six of us showing up would be  _ news _ .  The dagger guy would know we were there.  Hendersonville is twenty minutes away. We should stay there.”

 

Chris nods thoughtfully.  It’s good intel and he rearranges the plan in his head to account for the variables.  “Good. Thank you, Isaac.”

 

********

 

Isaac startles and Stiles continues his current run up his spine into his hair, wrapping his fingers in his curls and tugging lightly.  When Isaac settles into it Stiles pipes up.

 

“Also, where ever we stay, we’re getting our own room.” He’ll fight if he has to on this one.  “You’re obviously rolling in it, Mr. Twenty Dollar Pint of Locally Sourced Honey, so you can pony up for that.” Other Isaac looks green at the gills when Stiles mentions the amount, which, again, Stiles does not get.  If their Mr. Argent wanted to spend a million dollars on groceries for them, he was welcome to it. His only concern with Argent supplied items was whether or not they were designed to kill them, and he’d gotten over that years ago.

 

When his other self looks like he’s about to argue Stiles stares him down. “We’re not going anywhere. We’re the most invested in this mission working out. And we made a deal not to hurt each other, remember?  So unless you want to see us having sex, we’re getting our own room. Because we’re gonna have sex. Lots and lots of it.” He can feel Isaac shaking with silent laughter and he congratulates himself. “And I’m pretty sure watching isn’t your kink.”  He considers. “I mean, maybe Peter’s? But yeah, we’re not into that at all.”

 

He smiles as he leans back into the refrigerator again, taking in the grossed out looks on their other selves faces.  He feels accomplished, even if Chris’ face is the same blasé expression it was when he started. He’ll bet Chris is probably happy Stiles brought the separate rooms issue up rather than him, because he and Peter seem like the type to appreciate some alone time.  

 

Great. Now he’s grossed his own self out.

 

Peter appears at the door.  “Did I hear my name?” His voice is light as usual, but his body is coiled, belying the tone.  He doesn’t look like he’s expecting an answer, more taking in the mood of the room. Beah isn’t with him and when he and Chris’ eyes meet there’s more silent communication.  Whatever the conversation ends on makes the uncharacteristic tenseness disappear from Peter’s face. He leans laconically against the doorframe, crossing his ankles. Beah appears from around his legs.

 

“We packed Pascal,” she announces.

 

“Well?” Peter addresses Chris.

 

“Petty larceny,” Chris replies.

 

“Oh!” Peter smiles and reaches down to ruffle Beah’s hair.  “And here I was thinking she’d never benefit from my DNA at all.”

 


	19. Chapter 19

“So, can we go?” the other Stiles asks. Isaac is feeling a little pressed to leave too. He just wanted a quiet weekend with his husband and daughter, and he’ll do what he has to to get it.

 

“Isaac and I have to pack,” Stiles says. “I guess you guys, too.  FYI, you are not taking my shirt into the void with you.” The other Stiles scowls at him and Stiles scowls right back.

 

“As if. Do you know how embarrassing this shirt is?”

 

“Boys.  Please try to pretend at being adults.”  Stiles transfers his scowl to Peter, then scowls even harder when he realizes his other self has done the same.

 

Chris intervenes.  “Yes, we need to pack, but I think we can safely plan on departing within the hour.  Peter and I will pack up what food will work for on the road while the four of you take care of clothes.  Try not to wake up Josephine. Also, we’ll need to stop by storage on the way out. We need to get more supplies there.”  He takes a deep breath and closes his eyes and looks for all the world like he’s stealing himself for something unpleasant.  And when he speaks, Stiles kind of gets why.

 

“Isaac and Stiles, you’ll need your own weapons.”

 

“No,” Isaac says at the same time Stiles says, “Finally.”

 

“Come now, Beah,” Peter says, “Shall we show O Pascal before he goes into your suitcase?”

 

“Yes!” Beah says, grabbing the other Isaac and dragging him out of the room. The other Stiles glances back but follows after, leaving them alone in the kitchen. 

 

They look at each other. Isaac makes a “what the fuck” face and Stiles makes a very different “come fucking on” face. 

 

“Dude,” he says out loud, “We are about to do a B and E. A B and E. We have to be armed.”

 

“Stiles is right,” Chris says. “While my hope is that you will never have to use them, you must be prepared to defend yourself.”

 

“Dad,” Isaac says, slipping up for the tenth time since this whole thing started, “You know I hate this stuff.”

 

Chris’s stoic face flickers for a moment. “I know you are uncomfortable around firearms. There are other options. Come. I will show you.”

 

Which is how the end up in the driveway where Chris has parked the rental with the trunk facing the garage door, away from prying eyes. Which is good. Because there is a fucking arsenal in the trunk. 

 

Rifles, handguns, a set of knives, threatening looking sticks, and what looks like a  _ grenade.  _ And that’s just what Isaac can identify.

 

“Cool,” Stiles breathes. 

 

“What the fuck?” Isaac asks. “Chris, I thought you just sold this stuff. I didn’t know you fucking kept it.”

 

There’s that flicker again. “I aim to be prepared.”

 

“But this is the first time something like this has ever happened!” Isaac protests. 

 

Chris is silent. 

 

“Right?” he asks. “You’ve never had to do this before right?”

 

Chris takes a tight breath. “Isaac. There are things that I keep private about my life. My business has not always been as...clean...as it is now. And I--”

 

“Are you a hitman?” he blurts out. 

 

Chris manages to smile. “No, Isaac, I am not a hitman. I have been in situations in which I needed to protect myself and the people around me. Just as you are about to be. Which is why I want you to be armed.” 

 

He recognizes a brushoff when he hears it and he’s not done talking to Chris about this, but he isn’t in the fucking mood to continue when there are a bunch of guns two feet from him. Chris must know that, because he changes the subject. 

 

“I’m going to pick up one of the handguns,” he says, “It’s not loaded. I’m not going to hand it to you.”

 

“You don’t have to do that,” Isaac says, even though he totally has to do that. 

 

Chris slowly picks up one of the guns and shows it to Stiles, “Your father taught you how to shoot?”

 

Stiles nods eagerly. He’s not freaked out by this at all. “Yes, I have my license in California. Or it might be expired. But I had it. I can totally handle a gun.”

 

Chris nods and goes over the specs of the gun, which Isaac knows in theory he should understand because he’s Chris Argent’s son, but he doesn’t. Stiles does and he eagerly takes the gun and the holster and shows Chris that he knows how to turn the safety on and do other gun things with the gun. 

 

“We’re not going to bring that in the car with Beah,” Isaac says, “No way. Eight kids a day die of accidental gun deaths.”

 

“If you take the necessary precautions--” Chris starts. 

 

“No,” Isaac insists. “We can get all gunned up when we drop the kids off, or, or, keep it in the trunk but Stiles isn’t driving with a gun on him.”

 

Stiles nods, “Okay yeah,” he agrees. “Nothing is going to happen to us on the road. No guns around the babies.”

 

Chris protests, “You don’t know what will happen. Protecting yourself is--”

 

“Chris,” Isaac interrupts, “This is my family. Our family. We get to decide.”

 

After a moment Chris nods, “Alright. But you are my family and I am not letting you go in unarmed.”

 

“I don’t want a gun.”

 

“I’m not giving you a gun.”

 

“Can’t I just punch people? I’m really good at that, remember?”

 

Chris doesn’t respond. He takes two of the threatening looking sticks out of the trunk. “Stand back,” he says, and when they do he flips a switch and they light up with electricity. “These have enough voltage in them to knock down any grown man. You can use them defensively. The switch mechanism is such that you can’t accidentally turn them on, but you won’t be slowed by doing so.” He turns off the electricity and holds them out to Isaac who accepts them. 

 

They feel heavier than he expected, but not as scary. He’s held a gun a few times in his life and only one of them wasn’t completely fucking terrifying, and it’s not coincidence that he was handed that gun by Chris. These are like glorified cheerleading batons. If it will make Chris feel better for him to have them, he’ll take them. 

 

“We’ll keep them in the trunk,” Stiles says, “Safe. Okay?” 

 

“Okay,” Chris and Isaac both say. 

 

“Jesus. Okay. Super cool masculine moment we just had there. Let’s go inside and pick which of our shirts to bring on this crime spree.” 

 

**************

 

Inside Peter has already found their suitcases and duffle bags and rudely--like very rudely--transported their clothes into the living room where Beah is helping the Proxies sort through their clothes. Their  _ clothes.  _ Stiles isn’t as organized as Isaac but it still chafes to see his best shirts strewn across the coffee table 

 

“Papa wears clothes with lots of colors because he likes colors!” Beah informs them, holding out one of Stiles’ best button ups with a great red leaf pattern. “Daddy doesn’t like colors but he likes blue and he likes me and he says that’s enough things to like.”

 

The proxies at least aren’t touching their clothes, they’re letting Beah pick Stiles’ shirts out of the carefully stacked pile and throw them into his duffle bag. “Hi Papa!” she says, “I’m helping you!”

 

“Thank you, Beah,” Stiles sighs, “You’re so good.”

 

“I know!”

 

Proxy Stiles reaches over and just touches one of Stiles’ shirts and says, “Listen, I don’t want to offend you--”

 

“Oh you’ve already done that plenty.”

 

“--but do you mind if I take his shirts?” he asks, nodding toward Isaac. “They’re closer to my speed.”

 

Proxy Isaac suddenly makes a panicked sound. “What did we do with our other shirts? We can’t leave any sign we were here.”

 

“Malia burned them,” Stiles says, “She texted me.”

 

“She  _ texted you?  _ She  _ burned them?”  _

 

“Well she didn’t text me ‘burned the shirts that belong to the yous that came from another dimension.’ She said ‘shirts ashes.’ Were they like, your favorite shirts or something?”

 

Proxy Isaac sighs, “She could have asked first is all.”

 

“I’ll make sure she does next time. Yes, you can wear Isaac’s shirts. They’re comfy as shit. He’s just a physically bigger person than me--”

 

“Thanks”

 

“--you’re welcome - so it might not fit great but whatever. Not like I think your sense of fashion is seriously flawed for not getting my shirts but whatever.”

 

With the help of Peter literally dumping all their clothes in the living room and already packing Beah, packing goes quickly. What goes less quickly is calling his advisor and emailing all his students because it’s not a sure thing that he’ll be back for class on Monday. He can hear Isaac in the bedroom on the phone with his boss at the bakery doing the same. 

 

When he hangs up Proxy Stiles is watching him. “It’s going to be alright you know,” he says. 

 

“I know,” Stiles says quickly. 

 

“We’ve been through stuff like this before and we’re always alright.”

 

“Is everybody else alright?”

 

**************

 

Stiles doesn’t lie, because the time for bullshit is passed, and holding information back is just as like to get people dead as save them.  Plus, in one way or the other, this guy is him, and he fucking hates not being in the know.

 

“Not always.  But we do a pretty good job keeping the people we care about safe.” Honestly it was a bit scary how easily it had come back after that first confrontation in Saluda.  The fighting, the killing, the strategy. All the things he had thought had been left behind for years in Beacon Hills. “Plus,” he adds, “you have an Argent. And that always ups the odds.”

 

Other him does not look reassured.  “But you don’t care about us. So you’d throw any of us under the bus if it meant saving your Isaac.”

 

It’s a fair point.

 

“Not Beah or Josephine.”  Isaac appears at the kitchen door.

 

“What?” Other Stiles shoves his phone in his back pocket.

 

“Not Beah or Josephine,” Isaac repeats.  “If I have to, I’ll let the rest of you die to save Stiles.”  Ah, Stiles’ blunt little werewolf. “But I promise I’ll do anything I can to keep the two of them from getting hurt.”

 

Other Stiles narrows his eyes, then crosses and uncrosses his arms.  “That is...oddly reassuring. Thank you.”

 

Isaac nods seriously.  “You’re welcome.”

 

Other Isaac joins the party then.  “I think my boss wants to fire me. He can’t, because I’m basically the best baker he’s got—“

 

“Damn straight,” Other Stiles says.

 

“—but he definitely wants to.”

 

“You don’t have to come,” Stiles offers yet again.  Chris can thank him later.

 

“We’re coming,” Other Stiles says firmly.  “Stop trying to make us not. This is probably the closest I’ll ever get to some Terminator level bullshit and I’m not missing it.”

 

Isaac meets Stiles’ eyes and raises an eyebrow and Stiles mouths  _ do NOT _ , but Isaac gives a little shake of his head and does it anyway.  “There’ll probably be more. It’s like once you see it, you just keep seeing it.  It escalates. Like at first we thought there were just werewolves. And now...I wish it had just been werewolves.  I was serious when I told Beah to tell Mr. Argent if she saw anything weird. Because there’s gonna be more weird.

 

Other Stiles frowns angrily.  “And that, oddly enough, is  _ not _ reassuring, Not Isaac.”

 

Isaac shrugs.  “It wasn’t supposed to be.”

 

“So hey,” Stiles interrupts what will no doubt be a spiraling conversation of panic and paranoia.  “We’re gonna need more than these daggers.” He pats the small of his back and the comforting weight of his weapons.  “Can you get me into Mr. Argent’s sweet, sweet arsenal trunk?”

 

“You’re welcome to look, Stilinski, but the storage unit will have a better selection. You may want to wait if you want something specific.”  Chris has somehow magically joined them in the rapidly getting too small kitchen, holding Josephine’s car carrier in one hand. The kid is strapped in and somehow, miraculously, still asleep.  Peter is crowded in behind him, a diaper bag over one arm, the overnight bag over the other, and a box of diapers wedged between his hip and the diaper bag. Stiles stifles a snicker.

 

“There’s  _ more _ ?”  Other Isaac’s tone is bordering on shrill and Stiles does his best to contain his eyeroll.

 

Chris looks pained but answers as calm as ever.  “Yes, there’s more. And if we want to keep time, let’s load up the cars and get started.

 

**************

 

Chris suggests that Isaac stay in the parking lot with the girls and he agrees probably too quickly. The rest of them leave the cars and go by the storage area gate, leaving Isaac in the car with the girls and Chris standing in front of his open car door.

 

“There's seriously a storage locker full of weapons?” he asks. 

 

“There is,” Chris says. 

 

“Why? You don't do business here. You just come here to visit us. Right?” 

 

Chris nods, “This is a preventative measure. I like to be prepared.”

 

Isaac laughs somewhat hysterically. “I know that. You keep extra eggs in the house and made us all emergency kits for our cars. I didn't know being prepared meant having a storage locker full of weapons. Does Allison know?” 

 

Chris grimaces. “She...this was a bigger part of my life when she was younger. I kept more weapons in the house. Trained her. More than I trained you.” 

 

The words hit him square in his chest. Isaac blinks. He will not be upset. 

 

“You didn't take to it,” Chris tries to explain, “you reacted badly to every exposure or mention of weapons. By the time it would have been appropriate for me to reveal more of my work to you, our relationship was established as not involving knowledge of this work.”

 

Isaac can't help but scoff. “So it's my fault? I didn't  _ react well  _ to a strange man implying he would shoot me the moment I met him, so you decided to never tell me major information about yourself? To protect me?” 

 

Chris opens his mouth to defend himself but Isaac knows he summed it up right. “Chris I got  _ over  _ that. I let you--you think I was an idiot? I knew you were an arms dealer when I moved in, when you adopted me. I just didn't know it was this entrenched in your life. But you could have told me.” 

 

Chris shakes his head. Isaac can see he's fighting so hard to keep his face blank. “I never wanted you to associate me with any kind of violence. My work is one thing but this--Isaac you may see me harm people on this trip. I don't want to. I hope it doesn't happen. But I've been trained to neutralize threats. I don't want you to look at me and see...and see--” 

 

“I won't,” Isaac says, “You're my dad. When I look at you I'll see my dad.” 

 

Chris doesn't say anything and it occurs to Isaac that he needs a fucking hug so he gets out of the car and pulls him into one. Chris hugs him back, resting his hand on the back of his neck. 

 

“I'm going to take care of you,” Chris says, “I'm going to keep you and Stiles and the girls safe.” 

 

“I know,” Isaac says, “I know you will.” 

 

**************

 

The Proxies watch Isaac and Chris talk and hug, openly. They have no shame about it, make no attempt to hide that they are watching. 

 

“They hug a lot,” Proxy Isaac says. 

 

“They've hugged like twice in this whole thing,” Stiles says, “this coming from the PDA champions.

 

Chris sticks his head in the car and says something to the babies then walks over to them, his face conspicuously neutral. He uses a key to let them into the facility then walks the winding paths to a dark corner which Stiles notices has none of the obvious video cameras that the other hallways had.

 

Chris takes out a key but turns to them first. “You may recognize what you see but it is imperative that you not touch anything unless I direct it.” 

 

“You got it, boss,” Proxy Stiles says. Proxy Isaac nods and Peter leans back on his heels and looks bored which is close to an affirmative. Chris looks at Stiles.

 

“Oh me? Yeah. Totally got it, Chris.” 

 

Chris nods and unlocks the padlock, then slides the door up and reveals the contents inside. 

 

**************

 

“Holy shit,” Stiles says as he walks inside, and Chris tries to see the room from his perspective.

 

Objectively, he knows it’s not anywhere as impressive as the company’s official warehouse and satellites, but every item has been specifically curated for personal preferences and quality, from guns to EMP discs to tensile strength of rope. Three of the walls with their attendant steel shelves and cages are his, with the remaining wall and its items belonging to Peter’s purview.

 

“The Wal-Mart of guns,” Stilinski says, apropos of nothing, as he turns in a circle, hands on hips, examining the room. He, predictably, appears far less shaken than Stiles.  Isaac O is still by the door, his face doing something complicated that isn’t quite fear and definitely isn’t shock, but also carries an element of distaste.

 

“What?” Stiles picks up on Stilinski’s statement as Peter moves over to his side of the room and begins picking through offerings.

 

“The Wal-mart of guns.  That’s what Scott called Mr. Argent’s garage cages the first time he saw them. I mean, that was before we saw the bunker, so I think he overstated the case a little but at the time it seemed accurate.”

 

“He has a bunker?  Do you have a bunker, Chris?  Also can I have one of those?”  Stiles is pointing at what amounts to a hand held rocket launcher.

 

“No, you cannot. I think the gun is adequate for this trip for you.”

 

“Oh but  _ they _ get cool shit?  How is that fair?”

 

“ _ They _ are trained to use specialized weaponry.  You are not. You would be more likely to be hurt carrying most of these items than hurt someone else.”

 

“Okay, fine,” Stiles concedes.  “But when this is done, will you teach me?”

 

Chris hesitates as Peter looks up from across the room at him with a raised eyebrow.  “I...am not sure there’s a reason you would need that.”

 

Stilinski speaks up absentmindedly from where he’s leaned over a chain whip, hands behind his back like he’s trying very hard to stick to Chris’ ‘no touching’ command.  “You should get trained. You should be able to protect yourself.”

 

Peter’s lips press together in an effort to hide his smugness at hearing Stilinski repeat his argument in the many,  _ many _ discussions he and Chris have had on this topic.

 

“See?” Stiles crows, “I should be prepared!”

 

“When this is done,” Chris vacillates, “you and Isaac and I can discuss the possibility.”

 

“What does Isaac have to do with this? He’s my husband, not my parent.”

 

“Like he had nothing to do with your decision of where to apply to grad school?”  Chris keeps his voice as neutral as possible.

 

“Wow.   _ Wow _ . Rude.”

 

“I want this.”  Stilinski points to the chain whip.  “And this.” He indicates a garrote that is a match to the one Chris carries on his ankle.  Chris nods and Stilinski immediately wraps the garrote around his wrist and, without asking, grabs one of the jackets off a line of coat hooks and shrugs it on over his t-shirt.  “Hey, babe, get in here and pick something.”

 

“Oh my God.” Stiles alarm is loud in the small room and Chris stiffens, immediately on guard and seeking out the threat, but there’s nothing unusual he can see.  “What the hell, Peter?” Stiles finishes.

 

Peter has a length of rope hung over his shoulder, a pair of leather gloves and a ball gag in one hand, and a dual serrated knife in the other.  Again, nothing out of the ordinary.

 

“Is there a problem?” Peter asks.

 

“What the hell are those for?”  Stiles makes an all over gesture with one hand.

 

Peter’s eyes glance to Chris and then back to Stiles before he answers, blasé.  “This,” he shrugs up the rope, “is in case I need to tie someone up. This,” he holds up the gag, “is in case I need to shut someone up.  And this,” he finishes with the knife, “is in case I need to kill someone.” 

 

Chris gives Peter a look and Peter gives one right back and neither one of them say anything.

 

Stiles huffs and then turns an indignant face to Chris. “You trained Peter and you’re making noise about training us?”  Over Stiles’ shoulder, Peter’s eyes narrow dangerously and Chris thinks he might actually be angry for the first time in the last two days.  

 

Stiles rattles on, “I bet that was a fun first date conversation.  “Hey so yeah, I sell weapons for a living and apparently maybe _kill_ _people_ if necessary.  Did, like, he take that well?  I mean obviously he did he kept dating you but—“

 

“Stiles,” Chris says evenly.  Stilinski and Isaac O don’t seem to be paying them any attention at all.  They instead have their heads bent together and are talking quietly. Isaac O has yet to indicate interest in any of the weapons.

 

“I knew what Chris did before our first date,” Peter says stiffly.  “And no one  _ trained me  _ in anyth—“

 

“Stiles,” Chris says again.  “I already told you we could talk about this when—“

 

“What, did you like drop that bomb on him at Derek’s party?  Like just walk up and say—“. Stiles seems to hear what he’s actually saying and stops.  His eyes narrow and he tilts his head, not looking at anyone for a minute as he processes.  

 

“That makes absolutely no sense.  You’re the most secretive person I’ve ever met. How did you even get to the point of getting—“. He straightens and turns those narrowed eyes back to Chris.

 

“The first time you met  _ was _ at Derek’s party, right?”

 

The look he and Peter give each other changes, and they hold it for a long, long moment before Chris clears his throat.  “Stiles, as long as you and Isaac agree—-“

 

“Are you fucking  _ kidding me?”  _ Stiles explodes, and suddenly he looks more like Stilinski than before.  Isaac O raises his head in alarm and Chris shakes his head at him and hopes he conveys that he doesn’t need to be worried.  “You two have just lied—“

 

Chris sighs and accepts the inevitable.  This whole fiasco has seemed like one big lesson in the inevitable.  “While Derek’s party is undoubtedly the most important time I met Peter, it was not the  _ first _ time I met Peter.”

 

“I believe we said very clearly we  _ connected _ at Derek’s party.” Peter adds snippily.  “Christopher does not lie.”

 

Stilinski and Isaac O’s conversation is getting louder, with an agitated note, but Chris feels vindicated he can finally clear up one misconception.  “Peter did not randomly show up. Peter came because he was worried about his nephew and his niece and their possible associations.”

 

Peter makes a face and rolls his eyes and goes back to picking up his chosen tools.

 

“Associations?  What the hell kind of associations?”

 

“With the Argents. He was worried about Derek’s association with  _ me. _ ”

 

And with that he turns his attention to the rapidly escalating argument between Stilinski and Isaac O.

 

“You have to take something!”  Stilinski’s urging is strident and - against Chris’ direct orders - he picks up a shock stick.  “At least this. Or a gun for fuck’s sake.”

 

Isaac O takes a step back from the shock stick and Stilinski immediately shoves it back on the table.  “Shit, yeah, bad call. But the gun.”

 

“I don’t need a weapon!  I am one!” Isaac O shifts into werewolf and out again so fast Chris almost misses it.  “Werewolf! We should be more worried about the damage I might do than giving me a weapon!”

 

“And you’re the one who says we can’t leave any trace.  Which means we probably shouldn’t leave random criminal witnesses to the supernatural.  So unless we kill them all—“

 

Peter raises an eyebrow at Chris and Chris shakes his head and rolls his eyes back.

 

“So I don’t shift.  Big deal. I’ll be fine. It’s not like they can actually kill me.  I doubt they’re stocking wolfsbane.”

 

Chris makes careful note.  Wolfsbane.

 

“But it’ll still hurt you!  Why the hell are you being so stubborn?  Just take a freakin’ weapon, babe!”

 

“ _ I don’t fucking want to _ !”  Isaac O yells it so loud Chris thinks he almost hears a hint of a roar.  He starts forward, ready to intervene, when rather than step back, Stilinski steps forward, into Isaac O.  He wraps a hand around the back of his neck and presses their foreheads together. It’s a move Chris has seen them perform half a dozen times, but never like this, and Isaac O falls completely into it.

 

“Sorry,” Stilinski whispers, just barely loud enough to hear.  “I shouldn’t have pushed.”

 

“I know you’re worried, but I don’t want—“. Isaac O seems to suddenly become aware of their audience and stops talking but stays close to Stilinski, raising a hand to press his palm against Stilinski’s breastbone.

 

“You don’t have to,” Stilinski assures him.  “You don’t have to.”

 

“Could you check on Isaac and the girls?” Chris asks.  “I think we’ll be a few more minutes and I’m sure Beah is already bored to tears.”

 

Isaac O looks at Stiles then looks at him then looks back to Stiles.  “Yeah, Okay. Yeah.”

 

Stilinski gives the back of Isaac’s hair a sharp tug before nodding and stepping back. 

 

“We won’t be long.  Don’t blow anything up, okay?”

 

Isaac O grins before heading back out the door.  “No promises.”


	20. Chapter 20

 

The others come out of the storage facility first, walking shoulder to shoulder, heads bent low and talking to one another. They seem connected in this way that’s not quite human, and not something that he or Stiles have ever achieved and maybe could achieve. Maybe it’s a werewolf thing because while Stiles’s touch calms him down sometimes, sometimes what he wants is for Stiles to just talk or make him pancakes or go on a trip together. And these two just seem to want to touch each other.

 

Beah, who had been whining--talking--about being bored, spots them and perks up. “O!”  she says, “I want him to be in my car. Bring him into my car please.”

 

“Beah, there’s no room. Look all our suitcases are in this car. He doesn’t have anywhere to sit.

 

“You can leave,” Beah says decisively.

 

Well fuck. No one said parenting was fun all the time.

 

“They can say hi, but they’re going in Grandpa’s car.”

 

Isaac gently beeps the horn, which immediately makes itself clear as a mistake because the others flinch and squint at him. He lowers the windows on his and Beah’s side of the car and calls them over.

 

“She wants to say hi,” he says.

 

He knows they may be armed now, but they aren’t going to hurt them. The other Isaac’s allegiance is to Josephine and Beah, and the other Stiles’ allegiance is to the other Isaac.

 

The other Isaac smiles quietly and leans into the open window. “Hi Beah,” he says.

 

Beah squeals and reaches up for him. Isaac turns around in his seat to see the other Isaac tentatively reach out his hands and accept it when Beah squeezes them.

 

“Did you get me a present?” Beah asks.

 

**************

 

“Um...no?”

 

Beah’s mouth draws down into a pout and her bottom lip trembles.  Oh shit, oh shit he’s gonna make her cry. Beah, unaware or uncaring of his internal panic, crosses her arms.

 

“Why not?  Daddy said you went to get stuff.  If you get stuff you’re supposed to get me something.”

 

At Isaac’s look, his other self shrugs.  “What else was I gonna say? We don’t lie to her so I went for general information.  Also, FYI, we do  _ not _ get her something every time we go to the store. She’s not spoiled or anything.”  Isaac 2.0 seems weirdly defensive about it, like Isaac was gearing up to judge his parenting or something.  Like Isaac has time for that when Beah’s mad at him.

 

He leans into the car and makes a face.  “Sorry, Beah. It was all boring adult stuff, no Beah stuff.  There wasn’t anything I could get you.” Although he wouldn’t put it past Mr. Argent to have some kind of kid appropriate weapon.  Was there such a thing?

 

Beah looks suspicious.  “What did you get?”

 

He shakes his head as he straightens.  “It was so boring even I didn’t get anything.”

 

Something passes over Isaac 2.0’s face.  “You didn’t get anything?”

 

“No?  I mean, it’s not like it bothers me to be around wea—“ he glances at Beah, raptly listening, ‘—them.  Or it scares or upsets me that Stiles uses them. That was our life for years. And maybe is again?” He tries not to focus on the detail that the whole reason they had figured out the Demi-god angle was because of an anonymous note left on their doorstep.  The last thing he wants is for Saluda to start somehow looking to them to be their saviors. Isaac’s energy is reserved for saving himself and Stiles, thank you very much.

“Then why—?

 

Talking around kids seems to be a combination of code speak and putting someone else’s puzzle together, beyond even what it is to try to talk about the supernatural in front of civilians not in the know.

 

“I just...I’ve had almost every single one of those things in there used on me. I know what they feel like. I don’t...I don’t want to use them on other people. Not when I have my own, um...defenses?  If I had to I would but I think...don’t you think we’ve got a pretty good mix?” Maybe he had made a mistake. Maybe he’s leaving Stiles vulnerable—

 

But Isaac 2.0 nods without hesitation.  “God, yes. I didn’t even— But Chris worries and I don’t want him to worry.  He gave me like—“. His other self pantomimes something resembling a cross between a member of the color guard and a cheerleader.  “Electric zappers?”

 

“What’s an electric zapper?” Beah asks.

 

“An Argent favorite,” Isaac mutters in response, his stomach clenching in the muscle memory of all the times he’s vomited after experiencing that particular event.

 

Something on his face must give him away, because Isaac 2.0 blinks rapidly and frowns.  “Did Chris—“

 

“Yes.  But to be fair pretty much every Argent has.  So you can rest assured it’s super effective.”

 

“Every—“

 

Isaac shrugs, glancing over at the storage building door where Stiles is still lingering, waiting on Mr. Argent and Peter.  “Mainly Allison. There were a couple months there she was pretty focused on—“ He searches for a nondescript word that will get his point across.  “Cancelling my subscription to breathing. Those things Stiles has?” He pats the small of his back. “Also super effective, my friend.”

 

But then his other self looks sick, so Isaac feels like shit.  He tries to explain. “We’re good now! Really! We hang out with her and Scott and they stayed with us a weekend a few months ago!”  It’s a strange thing, he realizes, that he’s probably closer to Mr. Argent and Victoria than he is their daughter.

 

Before Isaac 2.0 can respond, Josephine breaks out in a piercing wail from the other side of the car, where Chris had temporarily put her car seat while he and Peter were gone.  Isaac 2.0 straightens from the slump he had somehow fallen into without Isaac’s notice, and starts to walk toward the opposite door.

 

Beah objects.  Loudly. “NO, Daddy!  You stay! You’re my daddy, not JoJo’s daddy!”

 

“Beah,” Isaac 2.0 starts.

 

“No!  You’re mine!”  She points at Isaac.  “O didn’t bring me a present.  He can get JoJo.”

 

The panic that had low level started the minute Josephine had started to cry ratchets higher when Isaac 2.0 looks at him and say, “Do you mind?  Just pick her up and bounce her. That’s kind of her go to.”

 

**************

 

The other Isaac looks a little frozen. Which is fair because he feels a little frozen too. 

 

“Just do me a favor,” he forces himself to say, “She’s the easiest baby in the world.” 

 

“I’ve never--” the other Isaac starts but cuts himself off. 

 

“Wait--never?” Isaac says which totally isn’t fair because Beah was the first baby he held, and this Isaac’s life has less to do with kids than his does. “No, sorry,” he says, “Listen it’s easy as hell. She can support her own head so it’s way less scary now.”

 

The other Isaac looks unsure, but moves to the other side of the car. Isaac gets back in the passenger seat and shuts the door. JoJo is still shrieking. The other Isaac opens the door. “What do I do?” he asks. 

 

This is distracting him from thinking about the fact that Allison-- _ Allison- _ -tried to kill him. Other him. Not him. 

 

“Just unbuckle her from the carseat--that’s it. Yeah. Now pick her up with one hand under her neck and one under her butt. It’s easy. Once you do it she’ll stop doing that.”

 

The other Isaac very slowly unbuckles JoJo’s carseat and gingerly picks her up. He has her hovering above the carseat and freezes. “Now what?”

 

“What do you think? Just do what you’ve seen other people do.”

 

The other Isaac glances at him but nods and brings JoJo to his shoulder. He starts rocking and bouncing. He’s doing it perfectly. JoJo stops screaming and reaches up for his face and the other Isaac makes an “oh fuck” face when she does but he smiles. 

 

Isaac smiles too. 

 

Even though Allison tried to kill him. 

 

“You’re a natural,” he says. 

 

“I’m not,” the other Isaac says, but he’s looking at JoJo like he’s mesmerized. He almost looks regretful when Peter arrives and holds out his hands cooly, waiting for him to hand her back. 

 

“My daughter please,” he says. 

 

“Of course, I’m sorry,” the other Isaac says, “I shouldn’t have, I’m sorry.” 

 

Peter takes her without a word. 

 

“You don’t have to be sorry,” Isaac says, as Stiles gets in the driver's seat. “You did good.”

 

The other Isaac closes the door. 

 

They’re on the road for an hour before Beah falls asleep. She still naps in the afternoon--thank god--and it is nap time after all. To test if she’s asleep Stiles says, “Bay Bay, we’re going to WalMart and you can get whatever you want. Bay Bay, Aunt Allison is coming to live in Austin forever and she is bringing Uncle Scott and Baby August.” 

 

“You lied to her,” Isaac points out.

 

“She’s asleep,” Stiles corrects, “I lied to you. Which I know is hurtful because Allison is in your top five and August is in your top three but you’ll get over it.”

 

Isaac fiddles with the collar of his shirt. “I have something to tell you.” 

 

“Oh yikes, you waited until Beah was asleep for it. What is it? Are there vampires?”

 

“No. No. It turns out their Allison tried to kill their Isaac. For  _ months.  _ Like she really hurt him.”

 

Stiles isn’t sure what to do with this. They already know that Chris tried to kill their Isaac and Isaac didn’t seem as torn up by it as he is about this. He’s all upset, which Stiles kind of gets. Their Allison is a humanitarian, dedicated to helping others whose only act of aggression on record was throwing a notebook at Erica once. And that was right after her mom died. So. 

 

“So Allison was a hunter too then?”  

 

“Or just crazy?” Isaac says. “I don’t know. I mean, she would never would she? I mean even right before we broke up she was really sick of me, and like mad about it. But she never even play hit me, or--okay she yelled, but it was under control.”

 

Stiles drums his fingers on the steering wheel. “Look, take me and Proxy Stiles, okay? We’re not the same person, remotely. Right down to our brains. Maybe their Allison is different. Maybe she’s different because Chris is different. Maybe because Chris let her eat sugar earlier. I don’t know. But she’s not Allison. She’s not the same at all.”

 

“I hate this,” Isaac says, “I don’t want to be going to North Carolina.”

 

Fuck. Stiles was the one who was fighting for them to go along. Him and his selfish need to be involved and be in charge of his own life. He couldn’t let this go by while he was sitting at home. The idea was intolerable, it made him shiver to think of it. But Isaac wasn’t like him. And neither was Beah. And he was dragging them along. 

 

“We can turn around,” Stiles says, “They’ll be relieved, we can just go home.”

 

Isaac pauses, but shakes his head. “No, this is our life. We need to be there.” 

 

**************

 

“Well, this is fun,” Peter says as Stiles and Isaac strap themselves in on either side of Josephine's rear facing carseat.  Which _ sucks _ but is apparently the safest position in the vehicle for a baby carrier so he can't really argue with that.

 

Stiles settles for resting his arm between Josephine’s feet and the back of the seats, which lets him curl his fingers into Isaac’s shirtsleeve and rest his knuckles against his skin. 

 

“No it’s not,” Stiles shoots back.

 

Peter has his visor down so he can watch them through the mirror.  He’s openly balancing the nasty looking serrated knife he’d grabbed at Argents R Us on his thigh because apparently this world’s Peter Hale is the most overprotective helicopter parent Stiles has ever seen.

 

“You are a singularly unpleasant human being,” Peter says in a bored tone, as if he’s reading an Ikea instruction manual allowed.

 

“Peter,” Chris says, low and calm.

 

“Christopher,” Peter snaps, “if you wanted a biddable husband perhaps you shouldn't have shown back up at my door after the incident.”

 

Chris, with no pause that Stiles can see, takes Peter’s hand and says seriously, “I didn't want a biddable husband. I wanted  _ you _ .”

 

“Well. Good.” Peter seems mollified and goes back to watching them as if they’re going to do a tuck and roll with Josephine out of a speeding car.

 

“Have you... like…had a lot of relatives kidnapped or something?” Stiles asks. “Because I feel like we’ve been acting on pretty good faith here.  I mean, pretty sure Isaac would take a bullet for your kid.”

 

Isaac doesn't look up from where he’s making goo goo faces at a grinning JoJo, confirming Stiles’ suspicion that he’s completely tuned them out.

 

“Not anytime in recent history, no.”  Peter says.

 

“Which means someone  _ was _ at some point.  And you guys didn’t bother getting either of them—“ he jerks his head toward the road, where their Others are following in their own car.  “—up to speed? You guys realize if Isaac and I had been different kinds of people they all could have been dead before Malia even made that phone call to you.  Even with the gun she wouldn’t have been able to take Isaac on.”

 

Chris’ voice is stiff.  “Our world doesn’t include daily run ins with the supernatural.”

 

“That you know of,” Stiles says under his breath, before returning, at normal volume, “Maybe, but you obviously deal with some pretty sketchy people.  They could always go after your kids for leverage.” He’s being an asshole again, he is very aware, but he’s still resentful Deaton hadn’t bothered to fill them in on the supernatural until well after Scott’s fateful bite.  They’d have at least been  _ ready.  _ “And I bet whatever Peter’s into is even worse.”

 

“I am not into anything.  I am  _ retired _ .”

 

Stiles fishes around in the cooler resting on the floor under Josephine’s carseat and pulls out a Perrier.  Because of course Peter and Chris carry sparkling water for road trips. “Why is that? No offense but our Peter isn’t the retiring type, and you’re pretty much him.”

 

He watches as Peter’s jaw clenches and then releases.  “I am not remotely like whatever Peter you deal with. Unlike him, I got what I wanted.”

 

Vomit.  

 

“But seriously, dude.  You obviously liked it, whatever it was, and don’t feel bad about it.”  On the other side of Josephine, Isaac is making faces at her, his forefinger clenched in her fist.  Stiles’ heart does a double time beat before Peter answers.

 

“I acquired different priorities.  There came a time I had to make a choice.”

 

“Oohhh, I see. Mr. Argent laid down the ultimatum, huh?”

 

Even from the backseat he can see Chris’ knuckles turn white as his clench around the steering wheel.  “I would  _ never _ tell Peter there were conditions to my—“

 

He cuts off when Peter puts a hand on his leg.

 

Peter says crisply, “I hope, child, when you actually become an adult, you have the clarity to recognize how absolutely ignorant the words currently coming out of your mouth are.

 

Distantly, Isaac hears the conversation continuing around him.  But their scents are annoyed rather than angry, so he tunes them out.  Josephine is gripping onto his finger like he’s her only anchor to the world.  He stares at her. She stares at him. 

 

And then she grins, all gummy and toothless and wide as anything and Isaac feels his heart explode.  He did that.  _ Him _ .

 

“Hey, JoJo,” he whispers.  “Hey. I promise I won’t let anything happen to you.”  He jiggles her hand with his finger and she makes a hiccuping, squeaking, giggle.

 

“Stiles... _ Stiles _ ..” He looks at Stiles, wide eyed.  “She laughed!”

 

**************

 

In the rearview mirror, Peter watches as Alt Isaac and Alt Stiles stare into Josephine’s carseat enraptured. He is sure he never looked quite as much of a doofus when he first heard Josephine laugh. The tears he shed we dignified, honorable.

 

He wishes they would stop.

 

Chris doesn’t take his eyes off the road but reaches over and puts his arm on his forearm, where it is tensed from holding the knife. He risks letting go of the knife with one hand and places it over Chris’s. He doesn’t care if the alts notice in the back seat.

 

He doesn’t care for these two at all. The Stiles one thinks he knows things that he doesn’t--that he couldn’t possibly--and is far too smug about it. 

 

“She is too young yet to discern who is good company,” Peter says, “Don’t be too flattered.”

 

“Dude, she’s a baby,” Alt Stiles says. “She can like whoever she wants.”

 

“I’m perfectly aware of my daughter's developmental stage thank you,” Peter says. 

 

Alt Stiles snickers and Peter glares at him in the rearview mirror. It took some time for him to warm up to Isaac’s Stiles, but now that he has he’s not partial to having an entirely subpar version of him around and insulting him. 

 

“What?” he demands. 

 

“It’s just weird, you know. Thinking of you having a baby. I mean. Other you would never. I mean he does have a daughter. I think. But she’s like, our age.” 

 

For just a moment he thought that this Stiles  _ knew.  _ Peter was from Beacon Hills after all, in this universe, and for all he knew, his child was public knowledge. But over his ringing panic, he hears that Alt Stiles is referring to an errant, unreal child, the boys’ age and he knows for sure that is impossible. He was not in the business of conceiving at that time. So with barely a pause he responds to that ridiculous accusation. 

 

“As we have gone over,” Peter says, decidedly not asking questions, “I am not your Peter.”

 

In the driver’s seat, Chris stoically keeps his eyes on the road and his hand on Peter’s arm.

 

**************

  
  


Chris calls Isaac outside of Dallas. “Josephine needs to stop. How’s Beah doing?”

 

Beah is singing kidz bop loudly and demanding to know when she’s going to see “O” again. 

 

“What about Mischief?” Stiles asks, weirdly hopeful, “Do you want to see him?”

 

Beah shakes her head and bangs her hands on her carseat. “He’s not so fun as O.”

 

“But I’m as fun as him, right Bay Bay?” Stiles asks. 

 

Beah giggles and hits her hands on the carseat, “Is that Grandpa?  I want to see Grandpa!”

 

Isaac covers his ear and says into the phone, “She could probably use some time to run around. Let’s pull over to the next rest stop.”

 

“You let her run around rest stops?” Chris asks.

 

“I also let her run around scrap metal yards and bars,” Isaac says sarcastically, “We keep an eye on her.” 

 

“Alright,” Chris says, “Follow me.”

 

They pull over at a rest stop their family has been to a thousand times before. Beah recognizes it immediately and cheers, “I get a Milky Way now,” she says. 

 

“Mama lets you use one vending machine once and it’s all over,” Stiles complains, “Don’t say that in front of Grandpa, Bay Bay.”

 

“Grandpa gives me Milky Way too,” Beah says. “Everyone gives me a Milky Way.” 

 

“Grandpa has some explaining to do,” Isaac says, pulling onto the exit lane. 

 

At the rest stop, the others stay close to one another, even when Beah runs over to the other Isaac and demands he pick her up. Isaac follows her over. The other Isaac glances at him and waits for him to nod before he picks her up carefully, not seeming to mind when Beah digs her knees into his side and loops her arms around his neck. 

 

“Grandpa’s car isn’t so good as Papa’s car,” Beah says loudly in his ear, “We have Kidz Bop and Backyardigans and Papa is funnier than Grandpa. Not so much as Uncle Peter. That’s okay. Daddy isn’t funny at  _ all  _ so you’re not funny either.” 

 

Isaac can’t help but grin, even when the other Isaac looks to him to check how he’s going to react to this which he  _ hates.  _ He knows the other Isaac is at least three years behind him in the parenting stuff but he is almost past checking himself for how he’s going to react to Beah, he doesn’t need his other self doing it too. 

 

“It’s fine,” Isaac says, not sounding as exasperated as he feels. 

 

Beah wiggles in the other Isaac’s arms, “Where is your baby? Does she like Kidz Bop?” 

 

**************

 

Oh.   _ Oh _ .  “We don’t have a baby,” he answers, then shifts Beah’s knees so they aren’t actually threatening to puncture his kidney.  He’d experienced that once before - thanks so much, Allison - and he isn’t interested in anything even close to that pain.

 

“Oh course you do,” Beah says matter of factly.  “Everyone has a baby. Ally and Scott have a baby, Grandpa and Uncle Peter have a baby, and Daddy and Papa have a baby.  They have me. You’re the other Daddies, so where is your Beah?”

 

“We don’t have a baby,” he repeats steadily, aware of Stiles just behind him and to the side.  “We don’t have a Beah.”

 

Beah’s eyebrows draw together and she squinches her nose.  She looks kind of sad and kind of confused and he pats her back as she processes.

 

“You didn’t want a Beah, O?” She finally asks sadly.

 

He clears his throat and considers looking to Isaac 2.0 for help, but he thinks he knows what to say.  “I didn’t know if I could take care of a Beah. If I could be a good Daddy to a Beah. And I didn’t want to have a Beah if I wasn’t sure I’d be giving her a good Daddy.  It wouldn’t be fair.”

 

“Because you had a bad Daddy?” She asks solemnly.

 

_ Shit _ .  Isaac 2.0 said they hadn’t told her, and he believes him.  But Beah is also crazy smart. He figures she must have Stiles’ DNA.  Internally he panics, but she’s looking right at him, eyes searching in a way that makes him think his answer is important.  So he ignores the accelerating heartbeat from both Stiles and Isaac 2.0 and answers back just as seriously.

 

“Yes, Beah, I did.  Some parents are not good people and it isn’t fair to their babies.  I was afraid I would be like that.”

 

“Jesus Christ, O—“. Isaac 2.0 tries to intervene but for once Isaac feels on solid ground and overrides him.

 

“But you are a lucky girl.  You have a good Daddy and Papa  _ and _ Mama.  And a good Grandpa and Uncle Peter.”  He thinks it is weird as hell they’ve taught her Chris’ husband is an  _ uncle,  _ but whatever.  “So that’s never gonna be you.”

 

Beah studies him with narrowed eyes and then pats his cheeks.  “Yes, I do have good daddies. And you are the other Daddy so you are a good daddy too.  You pick me up and talk to me and show me your special eyes. But Grandpa is better because he buys me Milky Ways.”

 

“Okay, that’s enough of  _ that _ .”  Stiles 2.0 magically appears before Isaac can respond and holds his hands out for Beah.

 

“But I want to stay with O!” Beah protests.  Loudly.

 

“But  _ I  _ want to buy you a Milky Way,” Stiles 2.0 counters.

 

Beah squeals and launches herself out of Isaac’s arms and into S 2.0’s.  “Bye O!” She yells as Stiles 2.0 walks her away.

 

“What they hell, man?” Isaac 2.0 asks angrily once they’re out of earshot.  Stiles puts his hand on the small of Isaac’s back, but Isaac 2.0’s ire doesn’t upset Isaac.  “I told you we hadn’t told her!”

 

Isaac shrugs then steps around and past Isaac 2.0, even though it makes Stiles’ hand fall away.  “She’s in school, right? She’s probably already met kids who have shit parents. She should know she’s never gonna have to wonder if that will happen to her.”

 

Then he walks away, past Isaac 2.0 and past the picnic tables and out to where the treeline starts.  Stiles calls his name and Isaac turns around long enough to say “Buy me a Dr. Pepper and some Twizzlers, please.” It’s enough for Stiles to see his face and know he doesn’t have to worry.

 

Isaac just needs a second to  _ breathe _ , and while he’d love for Stiles to come with him, both of them walking off is bound to make at least one of these alter versions nervous enough they follow after them.

 

His effort is wasted because when he steps into the trees, he finds Peter has beat him to it.  He’s chewing on a brownie and staring at not much of anything. When he hears Isaac he makes a face but doesn’t speak.

 

“Stiles doesn’t know,” Isaac says abruptly.  “When he makes jokes about our Peter. He doesn’t know Peter had a kid who died in the fire.  That he was trapped and couldn’t get to him and had to watch him die. Derek said that’s what probably really made him crazy.  Stiles doesn’t know. You have to forgive him.”

 

**************

 

Peter deliberately takes another bite of his brownie. From a vending machine. Stale and almost tasteless. He chews. He holds eye contact with this still  _ entirely subpar  _ alter. Chris is in the bathroom--bless him--changing Josephine and he can hear Stiles with Beah by the vending machine, chattering about his “patented trick”. The Alt Isaac didn’t take care to keep his voice down, but Peter feels he can be sure that no one heard him. 

 

No one heard him. 

 

“As we have discussed, multiple times,” Peter says, “I am not him.”

 

Alt Isaac blinks. “Oh. You didn’t--”

 

“I didn’t say that,” Peter says. He can’t deny Evan, not when he is faced with him for the first time in decades. Even among his family the fire is rarely spoken of, and when it is, it is in generalities. Not specifics. Nothing so specific as naming the child he lost the day his life was destroyed. 

 

And Chris. He doesn’t know. Peter meant to tell him, especially when Bianca came to them and asked them to adopt her child. “I’ve been a father before,” was all he had to say but he didn't. The time wasn’t right. The time was never right. Chris would say something ridiculous like it wasn’t his fault even though he had heard Evan’s cries even as he succumbed to smoke inhalation. 

 

Chris knew about the fire. It was impossible not to with the scar tissue that covered his body that obviously came from severe burns. That Chris still found him attractive was impossible enough, if he knew--

 

There would be a right time someday. 

 

“It is not,” Peter says, “Something I talk about. With anybody. And certainly. not. you.” 

 

Alt Isaac looks chagrined. “I just wanted to explain--”

 

Peter holds up a hand. It happens to be the one with the brownie in it. “You’ve done it. No need to continue.”

 

“If Stiles  _ knew _ .”

 

“He won’t,” Peter says, “Not around these people. Do whatever you want in your world. I don’t care what your Stiles thinks of me, and I don’t care who I am in your universe. Leave it seperate. Let’s try not to do any damage before you go home, shall we?”

 

Alt Isaac nods hesitantly. “I just want to say sorry, for him.”

 

Peter has no interest in a second hand apology, he hopes that Chris never apologizes for him. It would be revolting. Still, there’s something almost endearing about this Isaac, not entirely unlike their Isaac, and Peter reckons he can give him some break. 

 

“He’s forgiven, because I don’t care what he says about me,” Peter says, “Understand?”

 

“I understand,” Alt Isaac says. 

 


	21. Chapter 21

Stiles finds Isaac in the passenger seat of his car with a loaded pipe in his hand. He waves at him and Beah waves at him, but he doubles back and finds Chris coming out of the bathroom. 

 

“Will you watch her for a second?” he asks, putting Beah on the ground next to Chris. “Isaac is having a moment.”

 

“Of course,” Chris says, looking towards their car, concerned. Stiles kisses Beah and jogs back to Isaac.  Isaac doesn’t keep pot in Stiles’ car as far as he knows, and he didn’t notice him pack any. But Isaac has survived this long by building escape hatches into every situation, and this is his most favored way to escape. 

 

But not in a car that Beah is going to be in and not in public. 

 

With Beah set, he opens the passenger side door. Isaac drags his gaze up to Stiles. 

 

“I just want to hold it,” he says. 

 

“Okay,” Stiles says. 

 

“I’m not going to light it.”

 

“Okay.” 

 

The hand that is holding his lighter is shaking. “Remember when we got that lighter? In Utah the first time we took Beah to see the lights?”

 

Isaac turns the lighter in his hands. It’s silver with the name of their favorite bar in Utah carved into it. They spent way too much money on it, but it was one of the rare splurges that Isaac didn’t have to talk himself into. “She loved them,” he says. 

 

“She did.”

 

“She knew,” Isaac says, “I’m fucking--fucking pissed at Isaac for confirming it but she already knew. I was going to tell her when she was--I don’t know. Not  _ now. _ ” 

 

They’ve talked about this. A lot. There’s not just the effect that Isaac feared Creek had on his parenting, there was the question of when and whether to tell their daughter. Stiles is into doing whatever Isaac wants, and Isaac wanted to not do it now so they weren’t. It isn’t elegant or planned, but it was working. 

 

“Why would she even think that?” Isaac asks, flicking the lighter on and staring at the flame, “I told her that I had different parents before Grandpa, because it was important that she know I was adopted because we adopted her.”

 

“I remember,” Stiles says, “That was a good decision, it’s good you told her that.”

 

“She asked if my parents were in heaven and I said yes, because we say that about your mom but that’s it. I didn’t tell her anything else. She’s three years old, she’s not that interested in my social history.”

 

“You’re pulling all A’s,” Stiles says. “That was the right thing to say.”

 

“But she  _ knew _ ,” Isaac says. “How could she possibly know? I fucking never talk about it, and not around her. Is there something about me? Can people just tell?”

 

Stiles reaches into the car and unbuckles Isaac’s seatbelt. He gently maneuvers him out of the car until he’s standing and Stiles can put his arms around him. “She’s smart, but she’s not magic, okay? She probably just figured it out from the things that proxy Isaac was saying about being a dad. She’s so fucking smart, I swear you transferred some of your DNA into her, okay?”

 

“But now she knows,” Isaac breathes into Stiles’ shoulder, “I wasn’t ready for that.”

 

“She knows “O” had a bad daddy, and that’s all she has to know. She probably figures it’s true for you too, okay? Yes. I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry this is happening but it’s going to be okay.”

 

“You don’t know that,” Isaac says. “You don’t get it. She’s going to have more questions, and it’s his fucking fault for not just--”

 

“I know,” Stiles interrupts, even though he probably shouldn’t. “You said it yourself. She’s three. She’s not that interested in your social history. And if you don’t want to do the questions she asks, then I can handle it and I can deflect like you wouldn't believe. I got this Cowboy, if you want me to.”

 

Isaac pulls back, the pipe and lighter still clutched in his hands. “Can you stop trying to solve this for me? It sucks. It just sucks and that’s it.”

 

Stiles’ heartbeat ticks up. Shit. He was handling this wrong? Usually Isaac needs him to ground things, to start a new plan. “What do you need from me?”

 

“I need you to agree that this fucking sucks and it shouldn’t have been out of my control.”

 

Stiles nods. “This fucking sucks and it shouldn’t have been out of your control.”

 

Isaac wipes his nose. “Thank you.”

 

“Do you want me to go yell at Proxy Isaac?” Stiles offers, even though he’s problem solving again. 

 

Isaac shakes his head. He reaches back into the car and puts the pipe and lighter in the glove compartment. Stiles makes a mental note to check there a week later to see if Isaac keeps stuff there all the time. “I just--I hate all of this.”

 

Chris appears, without the girls. Stiles looks up at the rest stop and sees Peter holding court with the girls while the proxies stand to the side, subtly watching them. 

 

“Are you alright?” he asks them. 

 

***************

 

They’re not, of course, any more than Peter is.  The difference is that Peter will never admit it, while his son immediately says, “No.  The other Isaac told Beah about  _ our Dad _ .”

 

Chris doesn’t miss his phrasing, but lets it pass for now.  He looks between the two of them. “What exactly did Isaac O tell Beah about your father?”

 

“You know what,” Isaac says angrily.

 

He raises an eyebrow.  “Isaac O told Beah that Creek Lahey was abusive.” The words fall heavy and stark and he’s not sure they’ve said it so plainly in years.  And he’s also unsure what his son is implying is really Isaac O’s style. Stilinski’s maybe. Isaac O doesn’t seem interested in outing people’s secrets.

 

“I mean...no.  Not exactly. But he said…”. Isaac crosses his arms and rubs his upper arms with his hands.  Has Chris put him on the defensive? “Beah asked him if he had a bad Daddy, and he said  _ yes _ .”

 

Chris carefully restates what Isaac has said.  “Beah asked Isaac O a question and instead of lying to her he told her the truth.  About his own father, not yours.”

 

“Oh, what, you’re saying this is my fault?  That I’m somehow blowing things out of proportion?  Of course it can’t be  _ his _ fault.  He’s a  _ scientist _ who solves  _ crimes.   _ Of course he can’t do anything wrong.”

 

“That’s not what he said, Cowboy—.” Stiles - unwisely, in Chris’ opinion - tries to intervene, and Isaac rounds on him.

 

“Sure, okay, just take his side.  Jesus.” He slams his hand, palm flat, on the top of the car, and the sound it makes is loud enough that Peter, Isaac O, and Stilinski’s heads all jerk toward them.

 

“Isaac, no one is taking sides,” Chris says calmly, while his brain races trying to figure out the right thing to say. It’s the same feeling he’d had in the car when he’d wanted to snap at Stilinski to shut his idiotic mouth but couldn’t because he wasn’t supposed to  _ know _ .

 

“Well you should be!” Isaac snaps at him. “You should be taking my side!” 

 

Isaac turns to Stiles who is looking between the two of them with narrowed eyes.  “I’m ready to get on the road again. Please get Beah.” Then he gets in the car and slams the door and stares resolutely ahead.

 

Stiles snorts and puts his hands on his hips.  “That could have gone better.”

 

“Yes,” Chris agrees gravely.  “It could have. Beah may ask the two of you more questions.  Are you prepared for that?”

 

Stiles laughs like broken glass.  “Are you kidding? Of course not.”

 

“You may not have time to prepare perfect answers.  That’s okay. Honesty is more important than perfection.”

 

Stiles stares at him for a minute before saying flatly, “You know I love you and all, but you’re a gigantic hypocrite.”  Then he walks past Chris toward Peter and the girls.

 

Chris allows, as he follows after them, that he isn’t wrong.

 

***************

 

When Beah gets in the car, Stiles says something to him but he doesn't respond. Beah has chocolate on her face and he's  _ pissed  _ at Chris for giving her candy in the first place and pissed at Stiles for giving her candy now even if it was to get her away from Isaac and his apparent need to say whatever comes to mind. 

 

“Does Daddy have hurt feelings?” Beah asks as Stiles pulls out of the parking lot to follow Chris’ SUV. 

 

Stiles glances at him, letting him answer. Isaac clears his throat. “Yes, Bay Bay, I do.” 

 

“You're not supposta yell when you have hurt feelings!” Beah yells. 

 

They  _ never  _ told her that. It must be coming from preschool or TV. Still, Isaac doesn't feel coherent enough to defend yelling when he can't figure the logic of doing so. Because it's one thing for a three year old to yell but it's another for her dad to yell in front of everyone like a sociopath fucking awful--

 

No. 

 

“Did I scare you Beah?” he asks, dreading the answer. 

 

“Nu-uh,” Beah says through the fingers she's stuck in her mouth, “I knew you had hurts feelings.” 

 

Jesus Christ he didn't deserve her. 

 

“I'm sorry I yelled Beah,” he apologizes. His dad  _ never  _ apologized and whenever Isaac did, he knew he was doing at least one thing right. 

 

“And Stiles?” Stiles asks. 

 

Which is really fucking pushing it.

 

So Isaac ignores him. 

 

Because Chris and Stiles think he's overreacting. Like what Isaac did was no big deal, just revealing information that Isaac beat back into the dark. He  _ knew  _ they hadn't told Beah but he just went ahead and blabbed. 

 

Chris acting like it was no big deal was the worst of it. As though Chris didn't have a fucking secret gun locker. As though Chris hadn't gotten to carefully choose when to tell Isaac about Gerard. 

 

It had been shortly after Isaac turned eighteen, after the adoption. Overnight Isaac started having nightmares. The kind that woke him up screaming with Chris in his room frantically turning on all the lights and Allison hovering in the hallway. 

 

Afterwards Chris would take him into the kitchen and make tea. He never asked him what the nightmares were about, even when Isaac kind of wished he would. Even if he knew he wouldn’t tell Chris if he did. It happened when they were in Hodge, sorting out his father’s house. He dreamed of suffocating in the freezer and woke up screaming in a tiny motel room. 

 

Isaac had groaned and put his head in his hands.  “It doesn’t make sense,” Isaac said into his hands. “I should be better. Shouldn’t I? I mean. You adopted me. I have evidence that someone can love me, and it wasn’t all my fault. Right? I should be doing better. I’ve just gotten worse.”

 

Chris had sat down on the bed across from him. He had opened his mouth and closed it a few times, before he seemed to make a decision. 

 

Because he got to decide when to tell Isaac, he got to choose.

 

“I didn’t have nightmares until after I left my father’s house,” Chris had said, “ They didn’t start until I felt safe .” 

 

Isaac got it, immediately. Because he’d suspected. And Chris had said more. And because he wasn’t three. 

 

Outside the Texas landscape looks nothing like Indiana, or Chicago. Isaac takes a deep breath and runs his hand over his face. Chris telling him about Gerard when he was an adult who understood was different than the other Isaac blurting it all out to a baby.

 

Because he understood in a way that Beah would never ever  _ never  _ understand. Beah can’t understand the implications of what Isaac had said. She’s  _ three.  _ No matter what the other Isaac said, there is no way Beah really understands what bad parents are, even if she’d encountered families that were less fucking awesome than they are. 

 

“I’m sorry,” he finally says to Stiles. The clock says they’d been on the road for half an hour. Beah is singing along to Kidz Bop and banging her hands on her carseat. 

 

“What?” Stiles says. Not like a dick, just because he is focused on the road. 

 

“I’m sorry,” Isaac repeats, “I may have overreacted.” 

 

“Oh dude,” Stiles says, “Listen. Don’t think I don’t know this is pretty much your worst nightmare. It’s important to you that you control your own story. I get it.” 

 

It’s true. He loves that Stiles understands him, it’s always something surprising even after all these years. 

 

“I love you,” he says.

 

“I love you too,” Stiles says, sounding pleased. 

 

“What about me!?” Beah asks.

 

They laugh and for a minute it’s like they’re on one of their road trips. The SUV in front of them is the only reminder that nothing is normal and everything is fucked up right now. 

 

“I love you Beah,” Isaac says. 

 

“Okay!” she says. “Does O love me too?”

 

Yeah, those five seconds where he forgot they were dealing with fucking interdimensional versions of themselves were fucking awesome. 

 

***************

 

For the first 30 minutes or so back on the road, nobody says anything.  Isaac kind of wishes he had a book or a case file or even a cell phone to pass the time.  Josephine fell asleep five minutes in, so he can’t even entertain himself testing out his  _ I’m actually not Creek Lahey or Derek Hale I can interact with a child normally  _ theory.  Stiles is stroking the skin just above his elbow with his knuckles which is nice, but it’s not enough to keep the silence and the emotion and the tiny,  _ tiny _ space from closing in. 

 

He supposes Chris and Peter might object to he and Stiles climbing over the seat and into the trunk space for some skin on skin time, so instead he closes his eyes and breathes in and out, in and out.  Concentrates on the slide of Stiles’ fingers. Remembers all the ways Stiles anchors him. Clothes off, clothes on. Sexual and non-sexual. In the darkness and during the day. From the very first moment he’d kissed him against that tree.

 

He wakes up to the sound of voices.

 

“—don’t get to control him.”  For almost a full second he forgets what year it is.  Thinks he’s inside a hotel room and Stiles is facing Derek in the hall and is going to  _ die. _

 

“Hey.  Hey hey hey,”. Warm hands cup his face and he opens his eyes to Stiles’ freckles and honey brown irises.  He’s carefully leaned over JoJo’s seat, who’s still asleep, somehow managing not to touch her while crowding close.  “It’s okay. I’ve got you.”

 

“Hey,” Isaac says back, solidly in the now.  “How long was I asleep?” He squeezes Stiles’ hand with his, to signal he’s alright, right as Chris interrupts firmly.

 

“Stilinksi, You need to sit back.  It’s dangerous to be out of position with a seatbelt.  If we were to wreck you could break your neck or your back or even come unharnessed.  And then you’d be a danger to us all with the ricochet.”

 

Stiles snorts and rolls his eyes, but winks at Isaac as he sits back on his side of the car.  “You’re like a little old man with the safety obsession, Argent. You forget I’ve gone ride or die with you before. You could wreck and still manage to land us all safely.”   Then he pauses and makes a face. “Well, other you could.”

 

“Regardless—“ Chris begins, but Stiles’ hand waves it away.

 

“Got it, got it.  It’s fine. Listen, dude, I know you wanna make time, but I think we should stop for the night.” He doesn’t look at Isaac but Isaac knows this is for him.  “We’ve been in these tin cans long enough.”

 

“We only have four more hours and we’ll hit our—“

 

Peter, who has, while Isaac slept, put the knife away, objects.  “As much as I hate to admit it, he’s right. We can’t push the girls much further.  Tomorrow will be a bear if we do.” He, too, doesn’t look at anyone but Chris, but Isaac suddenly feels stripped and exposed.  “I suggest we stop wherever has a decent hotel. Hotel, Christopher, not  _ motel _ , do you understand?  And we can regroup and re-examine the travel route.  I think three days is more realistic than two.”

 

Chris mutters, then grumbles, then has Peter call the other car to relay the change of plans.  After he’s hung up, Peter twists in his seat and addresses Isaac.

 

“How is he fixing you?”  He gestures to Stiles without looking at him.  “What does the touching actually do?”

 

***************

 

Alt Isaac looks taken aback. Peter isn't sure why. It was a basic question. He’s gone from asleep to awake immediately but even as he opens his mouth to respond Alt Stiles jumps in. 

 

“He doesn’t need to be _fixed,”_ he snaps, “I hope you don’t talk about your Isaac that way, because that is seriously fucked up.”

 

“I don’t,” Peter says, “But our Isaac’s doesn’t turn into a supernatural creature at the slightest provocation.” He  _ does  _ nearly get into fist fights with strangers in the grocery store, and Peter has witnessed their Stiles calm him down with a hand on his shoulder. 

 

Alt Isaac bristles, “I don’t  _ turn into  _ a werewolf, I always am one. Always. You should remember that.”

 

Was that a threat? A warning? Peter scans his tone of voice and finds that Isaac isn’t attempting to be intimidating, he seems to be trying to establish a fact. 

 

“That doesn’t answer my question,” Peter says. He wishes he was in a more comfortable setting; twisted around in a car seat isn’t ideal, even if it allows him to observe that Alt Isaac’s eyes are straying towards Josephine, and he breaks a smile towards her.

 

“You’re not going to get one bub,” Alt Stiles says. “Just because you’ve got kids like us, doesn’t mean we owe you an explanation for anything.”

 

Peter glances at him but looks back at Alt Isaac who is cooing at Josephine. He opens his mouth to push for more, but Chris interrupts. 

 

“If you insist on a hotel, we have half an hour before getting to Shreverport. Nothing but motels before that.” Chris looks in the rearview mirror towards the alts. “Will you two be fine for another half hour?” he asks generally, but Peter knows he is only asking Alt Isaac. 

 

Alt Isaac answers, “I’m fine,” and he sounds exactly like their Isaac does when he’s feeling defensive. Which is often. 

 

“Alright,” Chris says. “Peter, there should be several hotels in Shreveport. There are numerous casinos--”

 

“Cameras,” Isaac cuts in. “Casinos are one of the most filmed places on earth,”

 

“--however,” Chris says, getting a little louder, “I suggest we go to the Piermark. It’s not affiliated with a casino, and it has room service.”

 

“Thank god,” Stiles says loudly. “Since you haven’t fed us since breakfast.”

 

“Are you blind?” Peter demands, “There is a cooler full of snacks at your feet.”

 

“Peter,” Chris sighs, “Please call ahead and make a reservation, then call Isaac to update him.”

 

Peter knows well enough when he’s being given tasks to occupy him so he won’t cause trouble, but he gives in anyway. Because he’s a nice husband, and he doesn’t want to slow down the prospect of having a private room with Chris away from these terrible beasts.

 


	22. Chapter 22

 

Stiles can tell Isaac is still upset about Proxy Isaac telling Beah about his father, even if he’s calmed down somewhat. Soon after finally getting out of Texas--the state just doesn’t stop--they arrive at a ten story hotel with valet parking that Chris has Peter call them to say  _ not to use.  _

 

Like they were going to do anything that required tipping for something that they were perfectly capable of doing. 

 

“Oh no,” Isaac says when he sees the hotel, “This is too much. This place has to be like $150 a night.”

 

“Probs more like $200,” Stiles says, “And this is totally an emergency, so we’re going to let your dad pay for it when he tries to.”

 

“No way,” Isaac says, “He can’t--he already bought groceries and--”

 

“Dude,” Stiles says quietly as he pulls into a parking space next to the SUV. “Have you seen our bank account? We are not paying for a hotel room. This is what dads do, please don’t fight him on it.” 

 

Isaac sighs. 

 

“You know I’m right,” Stiles says. 

 

“I hate all of this.”

 

“Hate is a mean word!” Beah yells.

 

They jump when Chris knocks on Isaac’s window. He looks almost threatening through the dark tint of the window with his black jacket and intense stare. Isaac hits the window button and rolls down the window. 

 

“We got a suite with a kitchen and room for the three of you, and one for the three of us. Isaac O and Stilinski have an adjoining room. I’m going inside first.”

 

“Why?”

 

“They are about to have problems with their security cameras,” Chris says in an even voice. Then he leans in the car window. “Beah did Uncle Peter pack your swimsuit?”

 

“Yes!” she yells. 

 

“That’s good because there’s a pool!” he says happily, like he didn’t just confirm that he was going to commit a crime. Then he leaves only to come back twenty minutes later, and tell them in a perfectly calm voice that it’s time to check in. 

 

At Proxy Isaac’s suggestion they put their hoods up and Isaac puts on his glasses, and they stagger their entrance, but even so as they walk in ten minutes after the proxies, the woman at the front desk gasps and says, “Oh Lord, I swear I just saw your twins!”

 

Isaac smiles tightly and grips Beah’s hand and keeps on walking. Five years ago Stiles would have come up with a great story about how yes they were twins! And they just found out! Or something! But he’s matured now so he just smiles and keeps on walking towards the elevators. 

 

Their room is on the top floor, sandwiched between the elevators and the stairs. Stiles uses the keycard Chris gave him and they walk into the room. 

 

“Where are O and Mischief?” Beah whines. 

 

“They’re in their room,” Chris says, “Let us all take some time alone.”

 

***************

 

Isaac closes the door and turns around. 

 

“Hey,” Stiles says softly, and watches everything that’s been building over the last 36 hours fall off of Isaac’s shoulders.  Sometimes Isaac makes him feel like a damn superhero.

 

“Hey,” Isaac says back, and walks into him.

 

They wrap their arms around each other and Isaac hooks his chin over Stiles’ shoulder.  They stay that way for a long time, Stiles running his hand up and down Isaac’s spine and Isaac’s fingers tangled in Stiles’ shirt.

 

“Their house smelled funny,” Isaac says to the room.

 

“Yeah,” Stiles agrees, then turns his face into Isaac’s neck and starts rubbing his cheek and lips back and forth, over and over.  He’s got a good five o’clock shadow going from two days without a razor and before long Isaac’s neck and chin are red and tender.

 

Isaac hums contentedly before continuing.   “ _ They _ smell funny.  They don’t smell like us.”  Now that Stiles is done, Isaac takes over, pressing his lips up and down the tendon of Stiles’ neck before repeating the motion with the tip of this tongue.

 

“They aren’t us, babe,” Stiles says, leaning his head to the side to give Isaac more space.

 

“They are,” Isaac speaks into the underside of Stiles’ chin.  “In the purest of senses, they  _ are _ .”

 

“Lift up your arms,” Stiles orders.  Isaac complies, and Stiles strips Isaac’s shirt over his head before taking off his own.  Isaac presses two fingers to the hickey still standing dark and angry at the juncture of his neck and shoulder, and Stiles curls his fingers into Isaac’s hair, tugs, and watches Isaac’s eyes go dark.

 

“Yeah, okay, they probably share our DNA and are this world’s version of us.  But they can never actually  _ be  _ what makes us up.  You get that, right?  That Isaac isn’t anything like you. He could never be anything like you.  He could never be what you are to me.”

 

“I know.”  Isaac’s eyes zero in on Stiles’ breastbone.  “Is it weird I wanna put the mark back? Like, really really want to.”

 

Stiles’ pulse twitches, along with other parts of his anatomy.  He shakes his head and takes a step back toward the bed, keeping hold of Isaac’s hand.

 

“No.  Not ever. Don’t ever feel weird about wanting to do that.”  He glances at the clock on the nightstand. “We’ve got thirty minutes before we’re supposed to meet everyone downstairs at the restaurant.  Wanna fuck up the bedsheets?”

 

“God, yes,” Isaac breathes, and lets Stiles pull him down to the mattress.

 

***************

 

Chris shuts and locks the deadbolt and the chain lock, then threads a trip wire across the bottom before activating the tiny sensor in his keychain.

 

Peter walks around the room, rechecking the locks on the window and the door connecting their suite from Stilinski’s and O’s room.  Only then does he set Josephine’s carrier on the bed and take her out. 

 

She’s awake again, which is only mildly frustrating because he would have liked a few moments with his husband without his child watching, but Gerard had taught him patience long before children had, so he can wait.  Peter walks over to him, JoJo grinning and babbling in his arms.

 

“Hey, cricket,” Chris coos.  “Did you have a good sleep? Come here to Daddy and let me change you while Baba gets a bottle ready.”

 

Peter hands Josephine over and she excitedly waves her arms and smacks him in the face as he walks to the bed and her diaper bag.  “I know, JoJo. Lots of unfamiliar things are happening. A lot of strangers. We’re totally off routine.” He lays her down and undoes her onesie.  “You’ve been very brave. I’m very proud of you.”

 

“Two things, Christopher,” Peter calls from the kitchen where he’s opening a five dollar bottle of water from the minibar to make a bottle. “One, I find it absolutely disgusting that I find you parenting our child almost as attractive as I found you the first time I got you out of your clothes.  And two, please stop talking to our child like she’s training to be a soldier. We’re not doing that, remember?”

 

Chris freezes and feels a wave of ice wash over him.  “I didn’t realize. I wasn’t paying attention.” He just barely stops himself from apologizing, too.  He doesn’t have to carry the burden of his upbringing. He doesn’t have to carry the burden of his upbringing. He doesn’t have to carry the burden of his upbringing.

 

By the time he’s repeated it three times Peter has the bottle warming and is sitting beside Josephine.  He holds out a diaper to Chris. “Can I admit I’m very bitter it was only an alternate version of me that got to murder Gerard?”

 

Chris pauses for a millisecond before continuing going through the motion of changing Josephine. “I suppose you can,” he says.

“Does it offend you?” Peter asks, conscious that “offend” is not the right word, but it’s what came out.

“It doesn’t,” Chris says, lifting JoJo’s legs. “Though you didn’t even know him.”

It’s true, Gerard was years dead when their relationship began, and even though Gerard was a figure in his larger world, he only saw him once at a distance. He never confronted Gerard, not professionally or personally. Gerard’s shady dealings had killed more than one of Peter’s peers, though that paled in comparison to what he had done to his son.

“I don’t need to have met him to want to murder him,” Peter says simply, moving to stand beside Chris and make a happy face at Josephine who smiles back at him.

Chris doesn’t move or look at him to acknowledge his presence. He is singularly focused on his task, and only his words betray that he is part of the conversation. “Gerard died alone, without an audience. What he craves is followers, and he did not have any when he died. It is as painful a death as he could have without you breaking the law.”

“I have no quibbles about breaking the law, not where you’re concerned,” Peter says and means it.

Chris does up Josephine’s onesie and lifts her, smiling as he does. “Be that as it may, it isn’t necessary,” he says for the second time, “He’s long dead.”

That’s not the  _ point,  _ Peter thinks, and Chris knows it. He feels cold ire knowing that there is a world where he destroyed Gerard and he failed to do so in this world. Even if he didn’t quite know Chris before Gerard died, even if he was nothing but a professional annoyance before it was too late, Peter should have  _ known.  _ He should have done something, somehow been the one to kill the man who abused his husband, no matter what.

“Look at our daughter,” Chris says, drawing him back into the hotel room. He can dimly hear Isaac and Stiles talking behind the glass curtained doors to his left, and Josephine babbling happily, reaching for him. “She is happy.”

“Of course she’s happy,” Peter says, “She’s our daughter.”

“I understand that you wish you could have been the one to kill Gerard,” Chris says, “Don’t think there’s no one I feel that way about for you.”

Peter holds his hands out for Josephine, “I can’t imagine what you mean.”

 

“Of course,” Chris says, “Slip of the tongue.”

 

***************

 

This hotel room definitely cost more than $200.

Isaac isn’t freaking out though.

Beah jumps on the bed immediately and they don’t even try to stop her. The two queen beds are piled deep with pillows that fall off as she jumps, making faces at herself in the mirror that hangs over the bed she’s chosen.

“Do we get to live here forever?” she asks.

Holy shit that would cost so much money.

“No Beah,” Stiles says, helpfully speaking since Isaac can’t since Isaac is looking inside the mini bar and at the price list that is affixed on the inside of the door.

$8 for a bottle of water.

“Nothing from the mini bar,” he says, “We can go to a Casey’s or something for snacks if we need to.”

“Dude, obviously,” Stiles says. “The mini bar is like a box into alternate dimension that we dare not enter.”

“No jokes about alternate dimensions either,” he says wearily.

Stiles walks over and prods him to stand up. Isaac closes the mini bar and stands, letting Stiles sling an arm around his shoulder and plant a messy kiss in his cheek.

“We’re here, so lets enjoy being in a fancy hotel, yeah? After dinner we’ll take Bay to swim and we’ll have an awesome sleep on these sheets and it’ll be great.”

Isaac obligingly sits down on the bed that Beah isn’t currently tearing apart and Stiles joins him. “I yelled at Chris,” he says, “I yelled at Chris and now he’s paying for our hotel room.”

“Technically it’s a suite, so he’s only paying for one room,” Stiles says, “But yeah, you did. Did you want to talk to him about it now?”

“He and Peter probably need some alone time,” Isaac says, and he desperately hopes that the alone time doesn’t include sex since their room is right next to theirs in the suite and the glass doors that separate the rooms from the common area don’t seem particularly noise cancelling.

It occurs to him that the others are absolutely having sex right now. There’s no doubt about it. The way they touch each other, there’s no way they’re not taking advantage of an empty hotel room. If they didn’t have Beah with them, he and Stiles might take advantage too.

Pre-Beah, pre-Austin move, when they had a little more money, they used to go on road trips all the time, and they would christen hotel rooms across the nation. They broke a bed in Fort Wayne once, on their only trip with a stop in Indiana.

Now they were boring at hell, and when Stiles lay down sideways on the bed, Isaac lay down next to him and nearly fell asleep right away.

“Nooooo,” Beah complains, “You said we get to go swimming! We have to go swimming!” He feels her knock against him, and grab at the hem of his shirt. “Daddy is taking me to swim, you need to bring me,” she whines. “O has to come with me too.”

He wonders if the other Isaac liked swimming, or if Creek had ruined it for him.

“I don’t think O has a swimsuit Bay Bay,” he says, arduously sitting up and pulling her onto his lap. Not to mention he hadn’t packed one either.

“We go to WalMart and buy one,” Beah reasons, “No problem.”

“Bay we—“ his phone starts ringing, interrupting him. He lifts the phone and checks the face. “Shoot. It’s Allison.”

“Don’t answer it,” Stiles says quickly.

“I can’t not answer it, she’ll think something is wrong.”

“Something is wrong, and she can’t know about it, don’t answer!”

The phone stops ringing, and a second later they hear Chris’ phone go off next door.

 

***************

 

Chris sighs when he sees the number calling and runs a hand over his face.  “It’s Allison.”

 

He and Peter are lying on the floor on either side of Josephine as she wriggles and twists her way through tummy time.  Peter glances as the phone as it continues to ring and then taps a finger on the back of Chris’ hand.

 

“You should answer it.”

 

The ringing stops, only to start again two seconds later.

 

“What would I say?”

 

“You could...Oh, I don’t know...try being open about current circumstances?”

 

Chris snorts.  “Don’t be ridiculous.  She would worry. Or try to join us.  I already have two children in danger, I don’t need to involve a third.  Not to mention she and Scott aren’t us. They can’t afford to just drop everything and drag August here. And she would try.”

 

The ringing goes to voicemail again.  There’s a moment of silence where Chris begins composing a carefully worded text, and then the ringing begins again.  Josephine makes a distressed noise and Peter gently pats her back.

 

“Christopher.  Isaac and Allison are adults.  Trust that you raised them well.  Trust that you have raised them resilient.  And if you can’t trust that, perhaps you can imagine how you would feel if you found out this had happened to Allison and she had hidden it from you.”

 

“Entirely different, Peter.  I’m her father. She should be bringing these things--”

 

“How. would. You. feel.”

 

He looks at the illuminated screen of his phone, imagines Allison on the other end, chewing on her pinky nail as she hits “call” over and over again.  “I would be upset,” he answers slowly. “I would be worried. I would wonder what I had done to cause her not to trust me enough to--” 

 

He stops.

 

“Ah.” Peter says quietly, then pushes the phone toward him.

 

Chris accepts the call and then presses the speaker button.

 

“Hi sweetheart.  Peter and JoJo are here.  I’ve got you on speaker.”

 

Her fury is a palpable force through the phone.

 

“ _ Dad, what the hell is going on?” _

 

“Why would you ask that?”

 

Peter gives him a look and rolls his eyes, but Chris can’t help but try to protect something from this situation.

 

“ _ I can’t believe you’re trying that.  Did you forget we share a sitter? A sitter you cancelled a standing appointment with last night because of a ‘family emergency?’  Which is funny because I’m part of this family and haven’t heard anything. And then I tried to call Isaac and he’s not answering. And Malia left a weird message on my phone saying she’s not above a prison break if it’s needed?  And I just called you  _ three times  _ before you answered.  What’s wrong?” _

 

“Everything’s fine,” he soothes.  “We’re at a hotel in Shreveport. Peter is drinking over priced minibar liquor.”

 

Peter holds up his scotch glass and shakes it, letting the ice tinkle.  “Hello, Allison.”

 

She isn’t distracted.  “We as in you and Peter and JoJo, or we as in…”  

 

He clears his throat.   Honest. Open. He can try that.  “Peter and JoJo and me. And Stiles and Isaac and Beah.”

 

“ _ Oh my god.  What’s wrong?  Is Stiles okay?  Tell Isaac I am going to  _ kick his ass _ for not answering his phone.  Should Scott and I fly down?” _

 

He looks at Peter helplessly.  How does he even attempt to explain this ridiculous situation over the phone?

 

“Allison,” Peter says lightly, reaching over Josephine to run his thumb over Chris’ bottom lip, “Isaac and Stiles and Beah are fine.  They had some unexpected guests and asked for your father’s help in assisting them back home. Your father is very sorry he didn’t let you know we would be out of town.  But everything is being handled.”

 

“ _ No offense, Peter, but that sounds like bullshit.  Dad, put Isaac on the phone.” _

 

Peter can't help but be a little chafed that his perfectly honest explanation is being rejected as  _ bullshit.  _ He doesn't dwell on it long, as he has Chris to worry about. Chris who at his daughter’s words looks at him panicked. 

 

“Isaac isn't in the room,” Peter says.

 

_ “Then where the fuck is he?” _ Allison demands.

 

He hopes he can distract her. This he is good at. “I'll remind you that your infant sister is on the phone with you. Such harsh words fall hard on innocent ears.” 

 

It doesn't slow Allison down. _ “And your infant grandson is on my hip. Since we are apparently in a ‘family emergency’ I think I'm allowed to swear. If neither of you will tell me the truth I demand to talk to Isaac.”  _

 

Isaac who can't lie to save his own life, and Allison knows it. Part of Peter wants to take the phone out of his hand and bring it to the boys’ room and let his stepson blurt it all out. But nearly all of him wants Chris to own this moment and experience being honest with his daughter. 

 

He pushes the phone in Chris’ hand closer to his mouth, and runs his hand through his short cropped hair. Chris pulls aways from the hand on his phone but leans into the hand in his hair.

 

“Allison, everyone is safe and well. The guests are from far from here. They have presented some problems.” 

 

He glances at Peter as though for approval. Peter nods and gestures “more” and Chris sighs. 

 

_ “Guests?” _ Allison asks _ , “what guests?” _

 

Chris grips the phone and puts his hand over Peter's before he can pull his hand away from his hair. “Allison. What I'm about to say is shocking and you may have questions but I ask you to allow me to finish completely before asking questions.” 

 

Allison is silent on the other end of the line. _ “I'm putting August in his crib and sitting down. Okay, go ahead.”  _

 

Chris holds Peter’s hand tight to his head. “Allison, the guests are from an alternate universe. They are another universes Isaac and Stiles. They look marginally like them, but are quite different. They were transported by a phurba, a dagger that cuts through seven realities. Allison, there are supernatural elements to their world and ours. We are driving to North Carolina to locate another phurba and hopefully use it to send the guests back to their world. Everyone is safe right now. I don't believe the others are a threat to us.” 

 

Allison is silent. 

 

“ _ Does Dad have a head injury?” _ she asks lowly. 

 

“He doesn't,” Peter says, “it's all true. Mind bending, is it not?”

 

Allison sighs. “ _ Two versions of Isaac and Stiles broke through space and time and came here and you're finding a dagger and on a road trip? With Beah and JoJo? And there are supernatural elements in our world? Like what?”  _

 

“Well their Isaac is a werewolf,” Peter offers helpfully.  

 

Chris closes his eyes and shakes his head as Allison rattles off a long stream of curse words.  He pushes further into Peter’s palm as she runs herself out, and then she asks, “ _ And Stiles, what is he?  The abominable snowman?” _

 

She doesn’t believe them.

 

“You don’t believe us.”  He keeps his voice level, deliberately keeps the hurt out.  He has never lied to her, misdirection and omission notwithstanding, and he is  _ trying _ .

 

Allison’s voice is careful in a familiar way he knows she learned from him.  “ _ I believe you believe what you are telling me.  Are there more of us in this alternative world? You and me?  Are we there? Did we come along on this journey?” _

 

Peter is the only person he suffers humoring him.  “Allison, you asked me to tell you what was happening.  And I told you. It is up to you whether or not you believe me, but I don’t think this particular conversation is productive.  We are supposed to meet your brother’s family and our...guests...for dinner. Perhaps we can continue this conversation when you are—“

 

_ “No, Dad, seriously, wait.  Don’t hang up. You can’t blame me for wondering if somebody’s slipped something into yours and Peter’s drinks.  Like that time in Belize.” _

 

Christ, she’d been  _ seven _ . He and Victoria had assumed -  _ hoped -  _ that particular memory, and the ensuing altercation had been long forgotten.

 

“No one has done that.”

 

“ _ Then let me talk to Isaac. And regardless, I’m meeting you down there.” _

 

He turns his head to glare at Peter, because this was  _ exactly  _ what he’d known would happen.  Peter looks steadily back at him, no censure or shame in his expression because Peter always meets him on equal ground.

 

“No, Allison, that’s not necessary.  Everything is under control.”

 

“ _ You said ‘Family Emergency’.  I am a member of this family. You would come for me.” _

 

“That is  _ different _ .”

 

She doesn’t address him, rather turns her focus to Peter.

 

“ _ Peter, please get Isaac.  I deserve to talk to my brother, and I am going to talk to my brother.  So please  _ put him on the phone.”  Her voice is just below a shout at the end, and Peter kisses Chris’ forehead before standing.

 

“I’ll see if he’s available.”

 

***************

 

Isaac answers the knock at the curtained glass door and finds Peter who immediately leans into the room and says, “Allison would like to speak with you.” 

 

His heart rate spikes. “Why? Why? What does she know?”

 

“Your father told her the whole monty,” Peter says proudly. “I believe she wants to speak to you to confirm we're telling the truth.”

 

Stiles is suddenly right behind him. “What the fuck? Why would you make him tell her?” 

 

Isaac sees Peter bristle in front of him. “I made him do nothing. Isaac, your sister would like to speak to you.” 

 

He looks back at Stiles who throws his hands up like he gives up. Beah is occupied watching Paw Patrol on the hotel TV, so Stiles comes with him into Peter and Chris’ room. He sits down next to Chris on the floor and speaks into the phone. 

 

“Allison,” Chris says, “Isaac and Stiles are here now.”

 

“Hello?” Isaac offers. 

 

_ “Hello? Hello? You dodge my call and I get a hello?” _

 

Allison is  _ madder  _ than he expected. “What else do you want?” he asks. 

 

“How about, ‘ _ Hi Allison, here’s an explanation for all the bizarre crap Dad just told you _ ’?” 

 

He adjusts how he’s sitting so he’s more comfortable. This could take a while. He looks at Chris for some explanation, but Chris is just staring at him, waiting. “Hi Allison, here’s an explanation for all the bizarre crap Dad just told you. A version of me and Stiles came through some sort of portal or something caused by a dagger, and now we’re trying to get them home.”

 

Allison starts cursing and keeps cursing for a minute. “ _ Are you serious? This is for real? _ ”

 

“Yeah it’s for real,” Isaac says, “We wouldn’t make it up. We’re not insane. This is actually happening and it’s pretty freaking weird.”

 

“ _ Okay. Okay, so like this is just life? People can come through portals?” _

 

“It’s a lot to get used to,” Stiles says. 

 

Peter delicately sits across from Josephine and speaks into the phone. “Allison, there are artifacts in this world and people who are able to conjure magic and control it in specific ways. I apologize for the boring explanation for something that is frankly spectacular and annoying, but that is the reality. It is something I have encountered in my work, that I did not expect to cross over into your lives.”

 

It’s shockingly parental coming from Peter and Allison seems to think so too. “ _ I’m sorry, was that Dad or Peter just now because I’m not unsued to the whole hiding things from me thing _ .”

 

“If I ‘hide things from you’” Chris says, “It is for your own--” 

 

“Dad has a gun locker,” Isaac blurts out, “He has one in Austin, and probably at home.”

 

Allison is silent for a moment. They wait for her, until she says,  _ “Oh was that it? Isaac, of course Dad has a gun locker. That’s not--was that surprising to you?” _

 

Isaac feels his face heat. Most of the time Allison doesn’t acknowledge that she had Chris seventeen years longer than he did, and she’s not even doing it now but it still smacks of a reminder that she knows him in a way that Isaac does not. 

 

“No one ever  _ told me, _ ” he says defensively. 

 

_ “Okay but he’s an arms dealer Ise, and like he’s dad, so. Gun locker.” _

 

“Well whatever, I’m just saying. Things are effed up over here.” 

 

“ _ Which is why I’m coming out. I’m texting Cora and Lydia right now to see if they can take August, and I’m looking up tickets to Shreveport. We can catch a red eye and be there in the morning.”  _

 

Chris, who had been holding the phone out over Josephine sits back and takes the phone off speaker and brings it up to his face. “Allison that is not necessary.”

 

Through the tiny speaker on Chris’ phone they hear Allison practically scream,  _ “Put me back on speaker!”  _ Chris winces but does, bringing the phone back to the center of the circle they’ve made around Josephine who wiggles, unaware of what’s happening above her. 

 

“Allison, you’re back on speaker,” Chris says. 

 

_ “We’re not hiding things anymore,” _ she states,  _ “That’s not how this works. I am coming out there. I am part of this family and Scott is part of this family and we are helping.”  _

 

Chris looks fucking pained. “Allison, there is very little that can be helped in this situation. We expect it to be over in less than two days. The expense alone is reason enough for you not to come. You have to work. We will keep you updated but--”

 

“ _ I’m buying the tickets, _ ” Allison says.  _ “It’s the weekend and my husband--who has been in the shower for this conversation, that’s how much has happened in such a short period of time by the way, you should be grateful I’m not freaking out more--is a lawyer with lawyer money and we are using it to come help.” _

 

“Allison,” Stiles pipes up, “The others are jerks. Like they are not fun to be around. They have total boundary issues and you and their Isaac have a history and it’s like, not fun? This isn’t a fun situation?”

 

“ _ I don’t think it’s fun _ ,” Allison says, “ _ I think it’s either true and terrible or it’s not and you all seriously need my help. The tickets are bought, it’s just a matter of whether August is coming with us or not. I’ll let you know. I have to go update Scott on the existence of supernatural in our world and another and pack. Should I bring anything specific? _ ”

 

Chris sighs, “No Allison. Though I wish you would stay home.”

 

“ _ Fat chance, _ ” she says camly,  _ “I’ll see you all in the morning. Don’t think I’m not going to be texting and calling you until then.” _

 

There’s a knock at the door in the kitchen that leads to the adjoining hotel room that the others are in. The doors isn’t deadbolted and when it opens the other Stiles walks through with his hair messed up and a new shirt on. The open doors to Peter and Chris’ room are just a few feet from him and he eyes their formation around JoJo suspiciously. “Dinner?” he asks.

 

“ _ Is that one of them? _ ” Allison demands. 

 

***************

 

Stiles is in a fan-fucking-tabulous mood. Sure, he’s a little hungry - after all he and Isaac have just burned off a shit ton of calories - but he’s relaxed and loose and Isaac had been grinning as Stiles had left him to check on the state of dinner so there is literally nothing that can ruin his current mood. Not Chris and Peter and their other selves holding an apparent seance around a cell phone, and not what sounds suspiciously like Allison’s voice coming through the phone.  Really, it’s a good thing there aren’t any werewolves among them, because Isaac had been pretty insistent they only do the bare minimum to not look and smell totally fucked out when they go to dinner and Stiles, as always, is happy to oblige.

 

“Is that Allison? Yo, Ally, what’s up?  Is Scotty with you?” No one has expressly confirmed Allison and Scott are still together but he can’t imagine it not being true.

 

“ _ Don’t you dare call me, Ally!”  _ comes back at him, and Stiles laughs. 

 

“Aw yeah that’s Allison.  Hey, are you coming to join this clusterfuck?”

 

“Yes, Allison,” Chris says wearily, “that is one of them. Stilinski to be exact.”

 

“Dude, I wish you’d stop doing that.  I keep looking for my dad.”

 

“Is that Allison?” The hesitant voice comes from behind him, and Stiles reaches out an arm to loop around Isaac and draw him into his side.

 

“Hey, you.”  Isaac’s hair is completely out of control and there’s still the faintest trace of teeth marks in the sensitive spot under his chin.  Stiles touches it with his fingers and Isaac shivers.

 

“Oh my God, Allison, I was totally not kidding.”  Other Stiles has his lips curled up but again, Stiles is riding too high to even get offended.  “They are awful and apparently  _ in heat _ .”

 

“I told you,” Isaac says mildly, still eyeing the phone suspiciously, “that’s a myth.”

 

“ _ You’re the other Isaac?”   _ Allison demands.  Right now she sounds way more like the Allison of junior year than current Allison, and Stiles is gonna be unhappy if it knocks any of the shine from Isaac’s afterglow.

 

“I think we should wait for this part until you get here,” Other Isaac offers.  “I think it’ll be less confusing.”

 

Faintly, in the background of the phone call, Stiles hears  _ Hey, is that your dad?  Did you find out what’s happening? _

 

“Scott!” He yells, partly because it’s kind of exciting, and partly because he knows it’ll make his other self get his constipated expression.  

 

He’s not disappointed on that front, because other Stiles hisses  _ shut up _ , even as Chris takes control of the situation.

 

“Allison, I would prefer you not get dragged into this.”

 

_ “Dad, I don’t give a flying fu _ —“ 

 

Stiles’ eyes widen because he’s never heard their Allison curse at Mr. Argent.  At least not to his face.

 

“But,” Chris continues, as if she hadn’t spoken, “I am aware you are going to do what you want at this point.  Please text me your flight information. We have room in the rental and can pick you up. I think it would be wise if you left August with Lydia and Cora.”

 

“ _ I’ll take it into consideration.  Okay, see you soon.”  _ And again in the background,  _ Wait, we’re flying somewhere? I feel like I missed something. _

 

Before she hangs up, Chris speaks again.  “I love you, sweetheart. Please drive carefully to the airport.”

 

_ “We’re taking a Lyft, Dad.”   _ She pauses.   _ “I love you too.  And you, too, asshole brother.  We’re gonna have a long talk, got it?” _

 

She disconnects before anyone can respond, but other Isaac looks pained.

 

Stiles nods at the group.  “Awesome. Great. Are we ready to eat?  Cause I gotta be honest, we are  _ starving _ .”

  
  



	23. Chapter 23

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains an extended scene of smoking pot (without Beah around). It begins at "2.0 gives him a look and opens the glove box."

 

The hotel could burn down around them and Isaac wouldn’t care. If it weren’t for the fact his stomach is trying to eat itself, he would happily drag Stiles back to their ridiculously expensive mini-suite and spend the rest of the night in bed.

 

But he  _ is  _ starving so they’re momentarily out of bed, but Stiles is covered in his scent and marked with his mouth, so he supposes he can live through communal dinner.  Even with the knowledge that this world’s Allison and Scott are on their way. He’ll deal with that tomorrow.

 

“I feel like we could all do with a nice dinner,” Peter offers.  “Something to break up the drive thru and junk food aisle for Beah here.”

 

“You two are the ones buying her all the bullshit,” Stiles 2.0 says in a highly pissy voice.  Isaac can only assume by how miserable their 2.0’s look that  _ they  _ hadn’t taken advantage of their bed.  Sad for them.

 

“It was not an indictment on your parenting, Stiles,” Peter says calmly.  Then he turns his back on Stiles, picks up Josephine, and stands. Chris joins him, staring at the cellphone in his hand.  “I think that went well, Christopher.”

 

Chris snorts. “She’s coming down here.”

 

“Yes.  Which you said beforehand would happen.  Therefore it is an expected outcome, not a surprise. You can deal with this. You can handle this.”

 

This conversation is private, Isaac can clearly see that in the way the two of them are angled into each other and have their backs to everyone else.  But Stiles 2.0 doesn’t seem to get the message, because he breaks in angrily.

 

“He shouldn’t have to deal with it.  I can’t believe you pushed him into telling her.  You  _ knew  _ he didn’t want to—“

 

Chris whirls around, and while his voice doesn’t raise, his eyes are hard. “Enough, Stiles. I have had enough of the insinuation that Peter is somehow pushing or manipulating me into doing things against my will and I have had enough of you subtly insulting both my husband and our relationship.  I am going to have to insist you stop.” He takes a deep breath and blows it back out again and visibly forces his shoulders to relax.

 

“Now. It has been a very long two days for all of us.  I suggest we shelve any talk of the mission for the rest of the evening.  We’re going to have to revisit it tomorrow with Allison and Scott as it is. So let’s go have a nice dinner and some nice drinks - which you will let me pay for without complaining - and then we will pretend we don’t notice that Isaac and O sneak out after dinner to smoke and then we will all retire to our rooms to spend some much needed private time with our chosen partners.  Does everyone understand?”

 

Isaac looks at Stiles who stares back with raised eyebrows.  Then they shrug and Stiles speaks for the both of them. “Yeah, I don’t know about them, but we’re totally on board.  Also, I’m drinking the minibar. Just so you know what kind of bill to expect.”

 

***************

 

The restaurant on the first floor of the hotel is a steakhouse that draws customers from outside the hotel, has grilled cheese for Beah, and not much at all for Isaac. Stiles would feel bad if he didn’t agree with the proxies--he was totally starving. 

 

The hostess grins when they come down and asks, “Are y’all twins?” which makes Proxy Isaac press against Proxy Stiles nervously. They’re purposely dressed a little differently and Isaac is wearing his silver glasses, but they still undeniably look alike. 

 

“We will need a high chair and a booster seat,” Chris says, blowing past what she said. 

 

“Um, Bay doesn’t need a booster seat,” Stiles says carefully. Chris nods instead of getting mad at him again. He’s a little cowed after what Chris said to him in the suite, but he’s just trying to  _ defend  _ Chris against Peter. He should be grateful. 

 

“Sure thing, baby,” the hostess says, grabbing a stack of menus, “We got a table just for you.” 

 

It’s weird to sit at a table and look at menus like this is normal, like they’re just friends getting dinner. Peter orders filet mignon and the most expensive scotch on the menu without a quiver. Stiles risks it and orders a nice scotch too, and a medium priced steak, even when Isaac gives him a look. 

 

Chris may be mad at him but he’s still rich at hell. 

 

Isaac orders a greek salad and tomato soup because that’s about all he can order. Proxy Stiles notices, “Dude are you that opposed to spending Mr. Argent’s money? Get a steak.”

 

“Don’t tell him what to do,” Stiles snaps. 

 

“I’m a vegetarian,” Isaac says, drawing his hand over the back of Stiles’s neck and rubbing. “You’re not?” he addresses Proxy Isaac. 

 

Proxy Isaac shakes his head, “I mean, that’s like--you’re missing out on so many good foods.” 

 

Isaac shakes his head. “I’m fine with that. I already eat way more foods than I used to.” 

 

Proxy Isaac furrows his eyebrows but they’re interrupted by the drinks arriving. No one comments on both the Isaacs being the only adults not to order a drink. 

 

Dinner is awkward. They can’t talk about the mission, per Chris’ expectation and the fact that they’re in public, so they end up talking about the classes that Stiles and Proxy Stiles are teaching this semester. Proxy Stiles becomes animated talking about one of his classes, and Stiles feels cold recognition as Proxy Stiles gestures wildly while talking about one of the texts he’s using. He looks like Stiles, and he’s talking in the same way that he talks and it’s fucking weird. 

 

Next to him Isaac rubs his eyes and checks his watch repeatedly. He knows they’ve promised to take Beah swimming but Stiles wants to get everyone to bed ASAP because this day has been fucking exhausting. Except apparently Isaac has other plans. 

 

“Isaac,” Isaac addresses Proxy Isaac, “Beah wants us to pick up swimsuits. Want to go for a drive after dinner?” he raises his eyebrows.

 

***************

 

Isaac is torn.  He definitely doesn’t want to disappoint Beah, but he also kind of wants this extra time with Stiles.  On the other hand, hanging with Stiles at the pool also holds appeal.

 

“Ummmm….”

 

Then Stiles 2.0 rolls his eyes, looking less than happy, and it hits him his 2.0’s eyebrows are raised comically high.

 

“Oh.  _ Oh!”   _

 

Stiles winks at him and combs one hand through his hair.  He leans in and whispers “See if you can get him to give you some to bring back,” and Isaac sits up straight in his chair and clears his throat.

 

“Yes.  I would love to go pick up swimsuits with you.” Beah squeals and Isaac turns and grins at her.  “Thank you for inviting us swimming, Bay.”

 

Stiles 2.0 still looks grumpy but it doesn’t seem to phase his double at all, who just kisses Beah’s forehead and stands up.  “Let’s go.”

 

Isaac stands at the same time Chris does.  Chris pulls out his wallet and takes out of credit card.  It’s solid black and screams NO CREDIT LIMIT, and he holds it out to Isaac 2.0.

 

“While I know it is not the primary purpose of this trip, you will still need to buy suits for everyone other than Beah.”

 

“Chris, we have our own money—“

 

Peter Interrupts, and Isaac can’t miss his hand settled firmly on Chris’ hip.  “Isaac, take the card.”

 

Isaac 2.0 opens and closes his mouth and then, without another word, takes the card from Chris and slides it into his back pocket.  “If we get mugged and someone buys a Tesla with this, you have no one but yourself to blame.”

 

Isaac says earnestly, “I won’t let anyone mug us, Mr. Argent.”

 

Chris closes his eyes briefly before re-opening them.  “Chris is fine.”

 

Isaac and Stiles’ Chris has told them that a million times.

 

“Um, yeah.  Okay. So…” he looks meaningfully at Isaac 2.0 and then the door of the restaurant.

 

“Yeah, let’s go.  Bye Beah. Bye grumpy killjoy.”

 

Stiles 2.0 actually smiles at that, then turns to Chris.  “I know you just passed over the money, but I’m still going to order another Scotch.  Peter has a card, right?”

 

Isaac doesn’t hear the rest of the conversation because he’s scrubbing a hand through Stiles’ hair and then following on his double’s heels to the parking lot.

 

He slides into the passengers side at the same time 2.0 gets in the drivers side, and when 2.0 reaches over to the glove box, Isaac clears his throat.

 

“Um, so, not to be a Debbie Downer, but I feel obligated to point out that driving high isn’t safe.  And it would really fuck up your kid if you died on this trip. So maybe wait until after the store?”

 

2.0 gives him a look and opens the glove box.  “Gee, really? Good thing I have you to be my conscience.  The shop in the hotel has swimsuits. I already checked. We don’t actually have to drive anywhere.”

 

“Oh.”  He looks out the window and mutters, “Sorry I implied you suck at parenting.  You obviously don’t.”

 

“Yeah, except I had no clue Beah had figured out about Dad.”

 

Isaac scowls and leans back as Isaac 2.0 rifles through the glove box.  “Don’t call him that. Chris deserves it more.”

 

2.0 doesn’t answer, just digs around another second before pulling out a bag of weed and a pipe. He hands them to Isaac as he cranks the car and drives further into the parking garage, toward a dark and deserted corner.

 

Isaac turns the pipe over in his hands, and as soon as 2.0 re-parks he hands everything back to him.  He has the pipe packed and lit in less than ten seconds. Isaac is mildly impressed.

 

2.0 lights it and takes a deep, deep breath, and Isaac can  _ hear _ his heartbeat slowing and his breath evening out.  It’s not unlike what happens to him when Stiles touches him.

 

2.0 passes the pipe and lighter and Isaac hits it twice before handing it back, politeness be damned.  They repeat the rotation another three times before either of them speak, and then it’s Isaac.

 

The car is hazy and Isaac is fascinated by the feel of his jeans against his fingertips.  “I used a bat the first time I smoked. It was with Stiles. On a hill. In Vermont.” He grins happily and rolls his head over to look at 2.0.  “Almost all my firsts have been with Stiles. It was our third anniversary. Three years since he stole me from Derek.”

 

2.0 squints and takes a hit.  He holds it a long time before releasing.  “You both keep saying he stole you. That’s, like, metaphorical, right?”

 

“Nope,” Isaac says, popping the P.  “He stole me. Right from under Derek’s nose.  And then we ran away.” He leans over the console and whispers.  “And then I stole him from Derek. In every way possible. I stole him and he stole me and by the time Derek showed up, it was too.fucking.late. He was  _ mine _ .”  He sits back, satisfied.

 

***************

 

Isaac isn’t sure what his face is doing. It feels weird like it always does and he raises his hand to his own cheek to feel if his face looks as shocked as he feels. Because  _ fuuuuuuuuuck.  _

 

This explains a lot about them. How touchy they are, how intense they are about each other. Like, obviously just the first time they had sex was like this, this--

 

Fuck why does he get high so fast. 

 

\--this intense  _ thing.  _ A profound  _ thing.  _

 

“You guys were like, doing a revolution.”

 

Isaac grins toothily at him. “Yeah, we totally were.” Isaac takes the pipe from him and takes a hit. “We belong to each other. Forever.”

 

Fuck. “Nice,” Isaac says, and coughs not because he needs to cough, but for something to do so he doesn’t have to come up with anything else to say. 

 

“What about you guys?” Isaac asks. 

 

“I mean we’re married,” Isaac says, “That’s pretty much forever, right? But like, I don’t know dude. We had a normal relationship from the start. Derek--” he glances at Isaac to see if he reacts to hearing the name, but he just takes the pipe and takes another hit “--is just this like, guy who is kind of part of our extended family. There was none of that with him.”

 

Isaac hums. “You guys met on a train?”

 

“Yeah,” Isaac says, recalling that he’d told Isaac this just that morning. It felt like years ago. “We just made fun of each other for three months, then my license wasn’t suspended anymore so when I told him that I wasn’t taking the train anymore, it was just clear that there was something between us, so I asked him out.”

 

Isaac makes a sound. “You waited three months before getting together?”

 

“Yeah?” Isaac says, “It feels pretty normal. We honestly basically were dating, we spent almost an hour a day together, we just didn’t know each other’s last names.” 

 

He takes the pipe from Isaac who tries to hold back a cough but fails. The car is getting a little too thick, and Stiles would kill him if the smell got stuck in here, so he puts down the pipe. Isaac is looking mournfully at him. “You could have been together that whole time.”

 

“It’s fine, dude, we got together in the end.” 

 

Isaac nods. “You guys don’t seem as….as us.”

 

“As what?” Isaac asks, more curious than mad. He can never get that mad when he’s high. It’s probably why he’s such a fucking stoner. “As intensely obsessed with each other? We’re probably not. That doesn’t mean we don’t love each other to death. We’ve been through a lot together. Not the same way as you guys, and everything, but we’re still each others number one, after Beah.”

 

Isaac nods. “Beah is a cool kid,” he says, “Is she--you know is she…”

 

“Is she mine?” Isaac asks, “Like biologically? No. She’s not Stiles’ either. Her biological father is a dude in the Air Force who surrendered his parental rights the day she was born.”

 

“Fuck.”

 

“Right? It sucked, but we already knew before she was born that me and Stiles were going to be her fathers.”  

 

Stiles would probably chew the other Isaac out for bringing it up, but Isaac is fine with it. If he encountered a version of himself who was a father, before he was one, he’d pin him against the wall and demand to know everything they felt, thought, and did. So he’s not surprised when Isaac leans back in the carseat and asks, “How did you know that you could be a father? With--”

 

“I didn’t,” Isaac interrupts. He doesn’t want to go where Isaac is going. “I was terrified. I would get so worked up I threw up sometimes, and I tried to hide it from Stiles but I couldn’t. My first therapist in Austin thought I needed to tell Stiles that I couldn’t be a father. He got me all fucked up about it.”

 

“If you felt that badly, why did you go through with it? Were you afraid Stiles wouldn’t stay with you?”

 

The words sting, almost as much as the idea did, back then. Stiles told him all the time that if Isaac didn’t want to do it, they wouldn’t do it. But the kicker was, he wanted to. When he put his hands on Malia’s belly and felt Beah move, he was filled with love and wonder and some deep pull that he would feel thousands of times once Beah was born and only be able to label much later. 

 

“Most of me was ready,” he tries to explain, “I’d been in therapy in Chicago plus there was Stiles, and that was good, and that scared, angry kind of snarling part to me? It was mostly calmed down. The only part that wasn’t ready, was my trauma brain. It told me that I would hurt the baby, like I’d hurt so many people.” He shakes his head. “It was hard to ignore.” 

 

***************

 

A lot of this is plain baffling to Isaac.  He can’t imagine what it would have been like to look at Stiles and see just…the lady standing behind him in the coffee line at Grinders, or...or...the guy who sometimes pulls into his office’s parking lot at the same time.  Even before Stiles’ backyard, before everything changed against the trunk of that tree, every emotion Stiles pulled from him had been intense. Almost overwhelming. 

 

He wonders if their relationship would have been strong enough to break his pack bond to Derek if it had been anything like 2.0 is describing, and then he feels sick, even through his high, just thinking about it, so he focuses on 2.0 talking about his fear of fatherhood instead.

 

“I don’t know,” he finally says.  “I knew we wouldn’t ever have, you know, kids. I’m not gonna risk it. I would...I would  _ die  _ if I did what Creek did to a —“. He doesn’t ask for permission to pick the pipe and lighter up and take another hit, he just does it.  Werewolf metabolism sucks sometimes and he’s looking for this to linger for as long as possible.

 

“But, man, Beah — You’ve got an awesome kid, 2.0.  And Josephine, man—“ He shakes his head and rests back against the seat, captivated by the smoke wafting in front of his face.  “It’s making my head go stupid places.”

 

2.0’s face does a complicated thing, like he’s trying to make an expression but he’s too high to really commit to it.  Isaac giggles and 2.0 rolls his eyes and sticks his tongue out at him like he’s Beah’s age.

 

“Shut up.  Don’t judge my high.  Also, not stupid. It’s okay to want something like that.  You just have to get all the tools in your toolbox. Chris told me that.  Except, you know, less high and more serious.”

 

Isaac giggles again.  “Can you imagine Chris  _ high? _ ”  He breaks down into full blown laughter, wheezing and coughing as smoke comes up and burns his throat, but unable to stop.  “He would be...he would be…” He trails off into snickers.

 

2.0 nods.  “You should see him when he gets drunk.  He FaceTimes us at 1am to tell us he loves us and gets really talkative and emotional and then I think he forgets we can see him because he gets  _ handsy _ with Peter.  It’s so embarrassing. Why did you call me 2.0?”

 

Isaac blinks at the rapid change of subject.  “Because, you know, you’re like another version of me?  So 2.0? That’s how it is in my brain?” He backs up to what 2.0’s drunk Chris story had reminded him of.  “So Allison is coming, huh?”

 

2.0 nods and makes another complicated expression.  “Yeah.” Even his tone of voice sounds complicated.

 

“Are you not…happy to see her?”

 

***************

 

“No, I mean yes. Or--which means I’m happy to see her? I don’t know. I normally really like seeing her, but I don’t know. I don’t think Chris wants her to come. I think it’s like--maybe too many cooks? Like, you’re not going to be happy to see here, are you?”

 

“I told you, we’re okay now. As long as she doesn’t try to stab me.”

 

Isaac can’t imagine being okay with anyone who tried to stab him. His Austin therapist seems to think forgiveness is the ultimate shit, but he still feels mad when he thinks about Raydan Eggers knocking him into a locker in the sixth grade. 

 

Next to him, Isaac considers and takes another hit. Isaac is smoking way more than he is and it’s filling up the car and Isaac is going to get much higher than he intended but he doesn't have the heart to tell Isaac to stop. He learned in his nursing classes that the more someone smokes, the easier it is for them to get high, and he figures since Isaac never does he probably needs a lot of hits, and Isaac can take one for the team. 

 

He just can’t act like a total idiot around Dad and Beah, though. 

 

“Maybe chill out in a bit?” he suggests after Isaac takes a deep hit. “I have to get this to last through the entire trip.”

 

Isaac makes a confused face, “The stuff in the pipe?”

 

“No the bag. But like, we can’t really reload it, and it’s running down to nubs right now.”

 

Isaac looks in the pipe and looks surprised to see he’s right. Isaac hadn’t packed the pipe that much in, he didn’t expect this trip to last this long.

 

“So are you like--do you do this a lot?” Isaac asks.

 

“Yeah, kind of,” Isaac admits, “Less than I used to, when I lived with Boyd and Erica. It’s totally fucking illegal in Texas, but it’s chiller in Chicago. One of the ways Chris tried to convince me into therapy was that I could get a medical card for PTSD. He actually once claimed I had glaucoma when I had pink eye, just to get me to a doctor, thinking I’d be so tempted by the possibility of a card.” 

 

Isaac looks surprised, and Isaac isn’t sure at what. He holds the pipe and lighter in the air, and seems unsure of whether to take another hit. Isaac solves the problem for him and takes them out of his hands and takes a hit himself. 

 

“You lived with Erica?” Isaac asks. 

 

“Yeah dude,” Isaac says, “She’s like my best friend. I lived with her and Boyd for years. Basically until they got engaged and it was like, whoa don’t want to be a permanent third wheel I guess, and I moved in with Stiles. They’re married now, they live in UCLA while Boyd is doing his surgical residency.”

 

“You lived with Erica?” Isaac repeats, sounding more confused than angry. 

 

“I’m guessing you did not live with Erica?” Isaac asks. He starts laughing because it’s so fucking funny to think of this Isaac hanging around the house with their cat 60 Bucks, getting high with Erica. 

 

“No,” Isaac says, like it is obvious.

 

“Oh my god that would be fucking hysterical. You so would not fit in. Wait,” he says urgently, “Do they not exist in your world?”

 

Isaac shakes is head. “No they do,” he says. “And they are together.”

 

Isaac sits back in the driver's seat. The leather feels weird against his arms, like someone else's skin, and he pulls down on his t-shirt so that he doesn’t feel it. “Good,” he says, “A least everything about your world isn’t totally fucked up.” Then he starts laughing again. 

 

“Oh man,” he says to Isaac, ‘You are so lucky Malia had to go to base. She wouldn’t be as nice to you are we are.” 

 

“What does that mean?” Isaac asks, wiggling a bit in his seat. 

 

“Malia is like, super fucking protective of everyone. She’d be standing around with her gun--she’s worse than Chris sometimes! And she’d be interrogating you guys on the supernatural back home in Beacon Hills and--”

 

“Wait,” Isaac says, “Malia’s from Beacon Hills?”

 

***************

 

“Um, yeah,” 2.0 says, “didn’t we already say that?”

 

The weird familiarity Malia had triggered in him resolves, and everything hazily clicks.

 

“I can’t believe we didn’t realize.  We never met her, but, like, it’s 2.0-ville!  Of course she would be here. I gotta text Stiles!” He tries to get his cell from his back pocket and frowns when he realizes it isn’t there, it’s in his car in another dimension.

 

2.0 is staring at him with his head cocked, his face doing a half assed job of looking confused.  “What are you talking about?”

 

“Malia! We know her!” He shakes his head at himself.  “We don’t know her. We never met her. Which is why we didn’t recognize—. She turned human way after we left.  She’s a were-coyote! Oh—“. He blinks rapidly and tries to fight his way through what is now a spectacular high.  He’s ready to get swimsuits now. He’s ready for Stiles in swim trunks. Yes. Yes he is.

 

But he finally narrows in on his point.  “She’s Peter’s daughter!”

 

“The fuck she is!” 2.0 spits out through laughter.  “She definitely is not. Also not...” He waves his hand around through the smoke.  Holy shit the car is so smoky. “...not any of those other things.”

 

Isaac shrugs, fumbling with the door handle.   _ Stiles, Stiles, Stiles  _ beats on refrain in his head.  “Maybe not in your world, but she definitely is in ours.  Then again,” he narrows his eyes, “none of you figured out Kate and Gerard burned down Peter’s house, either, so maybe you aren’t that great at knowing things.”

 

2.0’s face is doing something weirder than it’s done this entire time.  It’s confusing, because Stiles told Isaac he’d told Chris, so their 2.0s would have been filled in by now.  Maybe it’s just the smoke. Or he really  _ is  _ that high.

 

Isaac finally gets the door open and 2.0 shrieks, “What are you doing?”

 

“You said no more weed, right?  Let’s go get swim trunks. I can’t believe I’m buying swim trunks for Mr. Argent and Peter.”

 

“It’s  _ Argent-Hale _ , okay?  Here it’s Argent-Hale!  And here nobody  _ burns people’s—“ _

 

Isaac shuts the door behind him and sets off toward the hotel lobby, hands in pockets.  He’s gonna get swim trunks and he’s gonna see  _ Stiles _ .

  
  



	24. Chapter 24

They stay at the table after his son and Isaac O leave. Chris is not sure he trusts Stilinski without O and he’d rather keep eyes on him than have him in another room.  They work their way through another two rounds of drinks, Beah proclaiming to a cooing female server that her chocolate milk had  _ ‘Notes of smoked apple and grassy hills’.   _ Peter smiles proudly at that, and then the smile turns sharp and dangerous when the server turns her appraising look from Stiles and Stilinski to Chris.

 

“You may go now,” Peter says, blunt and without apology.  Chris holds his hand under the table as the server looks startled and scurries away.

 

“Dude!’” Stilinski complains, “Now she’s never gonna come back for a refill!”  He looks mournfully at his half empty stein of Ghost in the Machine, then back at Peter and Chris. “Plus that was like...hella rude.”

 

Peter sips his scotch and says mildly, “What, in my entire posture, makes you think this bothers me?  She will still get an excellent tip, and now she’ll also get to keep her eyes.”

 

Chris shakes his head and tries to keep the amusement off his face.  It’s a bad example for Josephine and Beah.

 

Stiles swirls his scotch and uses the glass to point at Peter.  “You,” he says solemnly, “are getting weirder and weirder the longer the proxies are around.”

 

Spending this extended, non-mission focused time with Stilinski and Stiles has forced Chris to acknowledge a growing number of similarities between the two, especially as Stilinski drinks more and starts letting bits and pieces of the soldier fall away. The two of them have a similar sense of humor and neither of them know how to leave well enough alone.

 

Chris takes a drink of his water, his second bourbon still sitting half full at his elbow.  Peter reaches over with his free hand, takes the water away, and replaces it with the bourbon.  Chris obediently sips, then retrieves his water. Neither of them are close to intoxicated, but with a pool in the future, Chris prefers not to risk it. Out of the two of them, Peter holds his liquor better.

 

Stiles’ phone lights up and he squints at it.  “They’re on their way back. Isaac says—“ He stops abruptly and clears his throat and shoots a look at Chris and Peter.  “They’re on their way back.” He leans over and whispers something to Stiliinski, who nods and starts chugging his beer.

 

 

***************

  
  


“Okay,” Stiles says, standing at the same time as Proxy Stiles. He knows exactly what his Isaac looks like high, but the new, werewolf Isaac is a mystery. “They don’t know everyone’s sizes so we’re going to help them. You’re good with the girls?” 

 

They start to leave but Peter reaches out and lightly touches his arm. “Would you like to ask us our sizes?” 

 

“Oh no,” Stiles says confidently, “I know them, they just don’t.”

 

It makes perfect sense, and they get out of the restaurant cool and smooth. 

 

In the hotel gift shop--which is huge and stuffed full of tacky tchotchkes and garish shirts that Stiles totally totally wants. He finds Isaac holding up one of the shirts, one with maps of Louisiana on it, grinning at Stiles. 

 

“Look,” he whispers, “it’s perfect.”

 

Isaac is medium high. He’s been higher--not recently, but he has--but he’s still whispering which is a sure sign that he’s been hotboxing. In  _ Stiles’ car.  _ Which, until there was a break in space and time, was off limits to such shenanigans. Next week’s Farmers’ Market money was totally going to getting the smell out of his car. 

 

“It is perfect,” Stiles says quietly, looking around the store. He finds Proxy Isaac on the other side of the room, making faces in a mirror--somehow higher than Isaac, just as Isaac had said in his panicked text. 

 

_ “too high isaac is higher hide us from chris isaac says kategarard purned down the hall mansion! we can’t see chris” _

 

“Should we buy it with Chris’ money?” Isaac asks in a hushed voice. “I don’t think he’d care. He always wants me to spend money. Did you know he offered to send Beah to private school in two years?”

 

Stiles does know that because he started that conversation, but he doesn’t find it helpful to point that out now. He keeps an eye on the proxies on the other side of the room, where Proxy Stiles hsd a hand on Proxy Isaac and is quickly picking out swim trunks and throwing them over his shoulder. 

 

“I think we should,” Stiles whispers back, “Hey, so should you two go upstairs and take a shower before we swim?”

 

“Not together!” Isaac giggles. 

 

Oh my fucking god. 

 

“No,” Stiles agrees, “Just--you want to sober up before you hang out with your dad and daughter?”

 

“It’s his fault,” Isaac says, “He kept smoking, and I was trying to be polite. Did you know that Peter is Malia’s dad?”

 

Stiles looks over to the other side of the store where Proxy Stiles is wrangling Proxy Isaac away from a mannequin. 

 

“That’s not true,” Stiles says confidently. “We’ve met her adoptive and biological parents and they are not Peter. Don’t listen to him.”

 

“It’s true in their world,” Isaac says. Proxy Stiles comes over and puts his hand out for the credit card, which Isaac takes out of his pocket but doesn’t hand over, “Yeah right!” he says, “This is my dad’s! It’s not yours!”

 

Proxy Stiles rolls his eyes. “Oh my god. You are seriously ridiculous.” His hand is on the back of Proxy Isaac’s neck, who is looking at Isaac and giggling. 

 

Stiles takes the credit card and takes the swimsuits Proxy Stiles picked out and hurriedly makes the overpriced purchase, slightly drunk mind trying to figure out how to handle this situation. 

 

First step is to get them in the hotel room. He leads them to the elevators and stops and quietly says to Isaac, “Are you going to take the elevator?”

 

Isaac loops his arm around his shoulders, “Yep.”

 

Stiles turns to Proxy Isaac. He has no idea if he’s claustrophobic too, but he still asks, “Are you going to take the elevator?”

 

“Yes,” Proxy Isaac says easily, and goes in the elevator when it comes, and rediscovers his reflection in the elevator wall mirrors. They’re alone in the elevator and the mirrored walls make it seem like there are thousands of them. It’s unnerving. Proxy Isaac raises his hand to the mirror and says, “Whoa.” 

 

“Amazing. You discovered your reflection. Super cool after you smoke my husband’s very expensive pot in my until now pristine car.”

 

“Okay, chill out,” Proxy Stiles says, “They’ll drink some water, take  _ separate  _ showers, and eat some food. Sober up real quick, so relax.”

 

“Dude,” Stiles says, “that’s not going to help that much. It just takes time. Trust me. I’m an expert on wanting Isaac to be sober-er than he currently is.”

 

“Hey,” Isaac objects. 

 

“Well, Cowboy,” Stiles says, “It’s just true.” 

 

“I do want to eat though,” Isaac says. 

 

“Then Proxy Stiles’ plan remains,” Stiles says, “We’ll hide in our rooms. I’m texting the dads that we’re going to meet at the pool in like forty five minutes. Maybe they’ll keep the babies and make our lives easier.”

 

“I want Beah,”  _ Proxy  _ Isaac says, not his husband and Beah’s father. “Why can’t we hang out with Beah?” 

 

Oh my god. “You can  _ hang out with  _ Beah when you’re a little sober-er. That’s the rules.”

 

“You’ve been drinking,” Proxy Isaac pouts. 

 

“Oh my god,” Stiles says out loud and they finally arrive at the tenth floor. Proxy Stiles inexplicably waves at the elevator camera, then leads Proxy Isaac to the adjoining room hall door.

 

Stiles says, only half joking,  “Don’t like, have sex so hard you can’t come swimming. Beah is really looking forward to it.” 

 

“I wouldn’t let Beah down,” Proxy Isaac says very seriously, and lets Proxy Stiles drag him into the hotel room. 

 

Stiles considers dragging Isaac into their hotel suite, but Isaac fishes the keycard out of his pocket and lets himself into the suite. He finds the car snacks in the fridge and starts snacking. Chris, Peter and the girls must still be in the restaurant because the suite is empty. Night has fallen and downtown Shreveport is underwhelming out the window. The only sound in the suite is Isaac chewing and humming. 

 

“I know this totally isn’t the time, but I don’t love that you’re high right now,” Stiles admits.

 

“Oh my god. What a fucking shock. I don’t love that you drink booze,” Isaac says, “We’ve known this about each other for years and years.”

 

“True,” Stiles agrees. “Guess we just have to wait it out and go swimming.”

 

Isaac hums. “Isaac says that Gerard and Kate burned down the Hale mansion.”

 

What the fuck. “That’s a rapid topic change, Cowboy.”

 

“Do you think that he burned down the mansion in Hodge? The cause of the fire was never concloded. Concloded. Concluded.” 

 

“I don’t know,” Stiles says, “I think just because something happened in their world doesn’t mean it happened in our world.”

 

“Because that would be insane.” 

 

“I know,” Stiles says, “But listen--”

 

The suite door swings open. “Hello my wonderful step-son and step-son in law,” Peter projects, “Are we going swimming, or are you too intoxicated?”

 

***************

 

His son is high.  To be fair, Chris had expected it, since, in a stellar move of parenting, he had all but put the pipe in his hand.  But perhaps he hadn’t expected him to be  _ quite  _ this high.  When he enters the hotel room on Peter’s heels, Beah holding one hand and Josephine in the crook of the other arm, Isaac is sitting on the kitchen island, stuffing food into his mouth at an impressive rate.  This is the one effect of Isaac smoking that Chris has always sincerely appreciated.

 

“We are  _ fine _ ,” Stiles says confidently, although the effect is ruined somewhat when he tilts just slightly to the side as he walks over to Beah.  “Forty-five minutes. I was gonna text you forty-five minutes.” He tosses a bag that Peter catches. “Swim Trunks.”

 

Chris holds his tongue as he makes his way to Josephine’s blanket and sets her down on her stomach.  She giggles and coos and reaches out a hand. He sits beside her and lets her catch his finger.

 

“And where are O and Sti-- Mischief.”

 

Isaac snorts and talks through a mouthful of food.  “Probably fu--” Chris is proud he catches himself in time, even being high.  His son is an excellent father. “Fonduing. Probably fonduing. Must be nice.  It’s been a while since we’ve fondued.” He laughs at his own humor and Chris stifles a sigh.  Then Isaac turns his attention to Peter.

 

“Did you know you have another kid?” Isaac asks through a mouthful of food. Chris freezes, but then Isaac rolls on. “Malia is totally your kid.” 

 

Chris watches from the corner of his eye as Peter becomes all consumed in the process of taking the swim trunks from the bag and carefully removing any tags.  He doesn’t look up as he says with what passes for quiet amusement, “I can assure you Malia is not my child.”

 

Isaac looks mournful and then suspicious.  And then, between one second and the next, Isaac swallows his mouthful, Beah charges into Stiles, and Isaac points his finger between Chris and Peter. 

 

“Did Dad tell you his family burned your house down?”


	25. Chapter 25

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> New rating

Space and time aside, Stiles is pretty damn happy.  Once they leave their lame other selves, Isaac opens the pre-stocked snack cabinet and grabs a $6 candy bar and rips it open with his teeth.  Thanks to werewolf metabolism he’s already starting to sober up so Stiles leans in and takes a bite of the candy bar before he does.

 

“You know how you manhandling things turns me on, babe.”

 

“Yeah?”  Isaac shoves half the bar into his mouth before setting it down on the counter.  He leans back against it and pulls Stiles with him.

 

“Yeah.”  Stiles is warmly inebriated, although not properly drunk.  Which would be irresponsible since they’re swimming with  _ children _ .  Or at least he assumes it would be irresponsible.  Christ, there’s so much to a parenting gig. He loops his arms around Isaac and ducks his head to nudge Isaac’s chin up with his forehead.

 

Isaac hums happily and drops his hands to grab a handful of Stiles’ ass.  “We have forty five minutes. You said I have to shower.”

 

“Only to make my alter ego happy.  He seemed really stressed about this whole pot smoking thing.  What a lame-o. I promise you I am never going to be that lame.”

 

“And I promise I’m never gonna smoke like he does.  I think he might have...like...I don’t know, he smokes a lot.  Also he said  _ Erica  _ was his best friend.  Who wants to be best friends with Erica?  Maybe that’s why he has to smoke.”

 

Stiles shrugs and sets himself to undressing Isaac, refraining from pointing out that Erica at one point  _ had  _ been Isaac’s best friend.  Because he has a mission. “There are worse things.  Heroin for instance. Or meth.” He gets Isaac’s shirt off and undoes his pants.  “How about you top the fuck out of me?”

 

Isaac’s eyes go dark _ ,  _  and Stiles silently crows.  Winner winner, Isaac dinner.

 

Isaac flips them around so that Stiles’ back slams against the counter and then drops to his knees like he’s been thinking about this all day.  He looks up at Stiles and licks his bottom lip, his eyes never wavering as he deftly undoes Stiles’ pants and pushes them to his knees.

 

Stiles would have thought, with the number of times, locations, and positions they’d fucked each other, individual memories would run together or fade.  And he supposes that’s true in some cases. But a few of them seem indelibly seared into his brain. The first time Isaac went to his knees for him. The first time he fucked Isaac.  The first time - years later - that Isaac flipped the script and fucked  _ him _ .  It’s possible he’s biased, but Stiles thinks that memory might be his personal favorite.

 

A gutternal noise escapes his throat as Isaac nuzzles his dick.  It turns to a groan when Isaac runs his tongue from base to tip, and then devolves into a whine as Isaac really gets to work.  Bare minutes later he’s tugging frantically at Isaac’s hair to get his attention.

 

“Bed, Isaac.  Bed. The lotion’s by the bed.”  Cheap, subpar hotel lotion, but they work with what they’ve got. 

 

Isaac pulls off with an obscene noise and sits back on his heels.  He digs around in his pocket as he runs his tongue over his lips and then holds his hand up triumphantly with an arch of his eyebrow.  Stiles squints at the tube through a fog of lust.

 

“Lube?  Where the hell did you get lu-- Oh my god, did you steal it from the gift shop?”

 

Isaac smirks widely.  “Hotel...life or death situation...it seemed appropriate.”

 

Stiles manhandles Isaac to his feet and throws his arms around him.  “Jesus fuck, I love you.”

 

He feels Isaac’s lips curve against his cheek.  “You just love my criminal inclinations.”

 

He nods emphatically.  “Those certainly never hurt.  So....um...let’s not waste the fruit of those spoils, right?”

 

Before he can blink Isaac has him spun around and bent over the counter and Stiles is muttering  _ fuck yes  _ as Isaac coats his fingers and starts working him open.  Isaac presses his chest to Stiles’ back, runs his lips across the scar on Stiles’ shoulder, and whispers into his ear.

 

“You belong to me.”

 

Isaac so rarely vocalies his side of the equation that it never fails to send fresh waves of need roiling through Stiles.

 

“Yeah, I do, babe,” he gasps out in between the maddening thrust of Isaac’s fingers.

 

“No one else can have you,” Isaac continues.

 

_ Twist, scissor, turn, stretch. _

 

“Hell no,” he cheerfully affirms between panting breaths.

 

_ Twist, scissor, turn, stretch _ .

 

“You don’t  _ want  _ anyone else to have you.”  It’s not a question, no anymore.

 

“Fuck no,” Stiles states emphatically, squirming back against Isaac to chase after sensation, the fullness of Isaac’s fingers no longer enough.

 

“Yours and mine and nothing else matters.” And then Isaac is inside him and words become meaningless as they remake their promises all over again.

 

***********

 

It is important to be careful when removing tags. One could rip the garment that they carefully chose and spent cash on, and that would be a shame. Peter delicately removes the last tag on a pair of trunks with toucans on them--no doubt selected by Stiles. It is the only thing he is concerned with. 

 

What his intoxicated, mistaken, misguided step-son just said is not his concern. 

 

But Chris always takes what his children say so very seriously. 

 

“Who told you that?” he asks levelly. 

 

“Isaac,” Isaac says matter a factly. 

 

Peter can see Chris fighting back a grimace. “You mean O.”

 

“Right, ‘O’,” Isaac says. “He says your family burned down the Hale mansion. So that’s weird.”

 

The task of detagging the swimsuits is done, and Peter turns to Chris. “I don’t believe this is a topic of conversation to have with Beah present, is it?”

 

Beah gasps, “I get a present?”

 

He expects a glare from Stiles at that, but Stiles just glances at him and picks her up, “No Bay Bay, I think it’s time to find your swimsuit, huh?”

 

She yawns and nestles her head against Stiles’ shoulder. “How many Paw Patrols until I get to go swimming?”

 

Stiles carries her into the boys’ bedroom. “Two. In fact, let’s watch Paw Patrol, yeah?”

 

“Yes!”

 

The door closes behind them, unfortunately leaving Isaac perched on the kitchen island pulling brownies out of the tupperware from the cooler. “You guys didn’t know about this?” he intrudes.

“We don’t know that it’s true,” Chris says, directly to Peter. “There is no reason to believe that because it’s true in their world it is in ours.” 

 

“That’s what Stiles said!” Isaac offers. 

 

Chris closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. “Isaac, would you--”

 

“You want me to leave?” Isaac guesses. “Why? If it’s not true then--”

 

“Isaac,” Chris cuts in. “I need private time with Peter. You can take this opportunity to have private time with your husband.”

 

Good.  _ Good.  _ Peter feels a little smug at being prioritized over Chris’ child, even if it is only for a moment, even if it is very kindly. He is working to keep thoughts of the fire out of his mind. The heat, the smoke, the sound of--

 

The tags. He needs to check if he missed any tags. He returns his attention to the pile of swim trunks and runs his hands over them once more. 

 

Isaac jumps off the island and takes the tupperware of brownies with him into the bedroom, leaving Peter with Chris and their daughter. 

 

“I knew nothing of this,” Chris says. 

 

Chris watches Peter turn the swim trunks inside out, run his hands along the seams, and say nothing.

 

“Peter,” Chris says again.  Peter turns the trunks right side out, folds and stacks them neatly, and then unfolds them again.

 

Chris walks up behind him and sets his hands on top of his, stilling their motion.  He rests his forehead against the back of Peter’s head. “Peter. I knew nothing of this.”

 

Peter, who knows him better than any person alive, asks, “So here, from your child, is the first time you heard this idea that your family set the fire?”

 

Chris watches over Peter’s shoulder as Josephine bats happily at a squish toy, blissfully unaware of the maelstrom gathering.  He hesitates, then answers, “Stilinksi said something this morning. I had no reason to believe it was true. I still don’t.”

 

“But in their world-“

 

Chris moves around the counter to face Peter but doesn’t let go of his hand.  “Yes. My father and Kate.” Something flashes across Peter’s face, too fast to catch.  “I didn’t— Stilinski says I didn’t kno—“ He catches himself. “—their world’s version was not involved. He didn’t know, and I wouldn’t have known either.”

 

“So you really can’t guarantee what Isaac said isn’t true, can you? Do you know how many of my  _ colleagues _ Gerard— You’ve seen Jennifer.  He was entirely capable.”

 

“Our world,” Chris states evenly, running his thumb in circles on the skin between Peter’s thumb and forefinger, “is not their world, Peter.  We are not them and their lives are not ours.”

 

“Is that what you tell yourself?” Peter asks curiously, as if it is just another question for exploration, for investigation, and Chris recognizes they are moving into truly dangerous ground.  “Does that give you comfort? Plausible denial?”

 

Chris draws in breath, but before he can answer, Peter changes tacts, lightening fast.  In the same, light, amused voice, “Were you planning to tell me about this vastly enlightening conversation?”

 

“Christ, Peter, of course.”  His husband is hurting, Chris firmly reminds himself.  This is what Peter does, this is how he defends himself.  He knows this, because he knows Peter better than anyone alive.  “Of course I was. I was waiting to things to calm down. I was waiting for—“

 

Peter slips his hand from Chris’ and wave it airily.  “For the optimal time. For the perfect time. For the planets to align themselves and give you a sign I could handle it.  Tell me, Christopher, did you make a conscious decision to treat me like your children, or is it just instinct to think no one can bear the weight of the world quite like the incomparable Christopher Nicholas Argent-Hale?”

 

Chris jerks back in the midst of reaching out to reclaim Peter’s hand.  “That’s not fair,” he says through clenched teeth. “You know that’s not—“

 

“Really?  Then prove it.  Call your child out here right now and tell him the truth.  Every bit of it. All those ugly pieces you think he’s too fragile and delicate to bear.  Answer Stiles’ questions rather than deflecting them. Tell Allison the entire truth about Belize.  Try being  _ honest _ for once.”

 

Chris regrets it as soon as he says it.  Tries to call the accusation back as soon as it slips, anger blazing behind the words.  But of course it’s too late. “Honest? Really? Like you’ve been honest with  _ me  _ about the fire?”

 

The color disappears from Peter’s face and he twitches like an abortive move to reach for something, or run to somewhere.  His chest rises and falls rapidly and Chris can see his pulse pounding out against his throat. Chris takes a halting step toward him and Peter takes a matching step back, eyes darting around the room like a wounded animal looking for escape.

 

“Peter—“ He pleads quietly, “I shouldn’t have—“

 

“Josephine,” Peter blurts out, and quickly stoops down by the blanket to lift her into his arms.  “Josephine needs to be changed if we’re going to swim.” 

 

Before Chris can get another word out Peter disappears into their room.

 

Chris doesn’t stop to debate the wisdom of his actions or if the responsible thing would be to stay and stand watch between his son’s family and Stilinski and Isaac O.  Instead he curses, swipes the swim trunks from the counter, and follows after Peter, giving up silent thanks that Peter had neglected to lock the door.

 

Peter feels like he’s walking through a smoky room with no sign of an exit. He knows it isn’t real, that the tightness in his chest is purely psychosomatic, a psychological inconvenience. He brings in air as he lies Josephine on the bed and carefully dresses her. He does not look up when Chris comes in the room but does say, “Are you not dedicating yourself to protecting your son from the alts? I would think you would be standing guard now.”

 

He’s being unkind and he knows it, but he is not happy with Christopher right now. He should have known that Chris knew more than he let on, but he was under the impression that they were functioning with the false assumption that Chris was ignorant of. Of. 

 

He couldn’t know about Evan. 

 

“This is more important,” Chris says, stepping up beside him, giving him more space than he had before. “Peter. We need to talk about this.”

 

“Do we?” Peter asks, lifting Josephine against his shoulder. As if sensing the tension between her fathers she begins to stir in an agitated state, batting her hand against his face. Peter allows it. “Surely you, Chris Argent-Hale, see the merit in burying the truth when it is inconvenient.”

 

Chris takes a deep breath. “I--I did not mean to make an accusation. I appreciate you pushing me, encouraging me to be more honest with my children. I don’t know if you can understand how difficult it is for me, but I--Peter I’m sorry.”

 

The imagined smoke is still thick in the room, and to Peter’s alarm he nearly starts coughing when he takes a breath in. He knows he must looks deranged, and he wants to take Josephine and hide from Chris. He would take Chris with him too, if only he weren’t this Chris, the one who violated the unspoken rule they had to never talk about the fire. 

 

Peter is honest about so many things. And Chris is secretive about so many more. He is allowed one piece of his life to keep in the dark. He never denies Evan, not in his mind or aloud, and Chris bringing him up puts him in the position to either deny his son, or lie. 

 

He resents him for it. 

 

“Are you?” Peter asks. His mind is spinning. He wants to pick at Chris, ask ‘Do you regret hurting me, or do you regret upsetting the balanced lies we have built ourselves on?’ 

 

“I am,” Chris says sincerely, “I realize now was not the time, it was poor--”

 

Peter closes his eyes against the smoke and feels Josephine clinging to him. “Timing. The Christopher Nicholas Argent-Hale delusion. That nothing can hurt the ones you love as long as it’s said at  _ just the right time.  _ Well there wasn’t a right time for that, Christopher. There was not a right time for you to bring up the fire or my son.”

 

The words leave his lips so quickly, and his mind immediately retrospects and realizes that Chris never mentioned his son. He doesn’t know that Chris even knows about him. But he knows. He does know that Chris knows because Chris seems to know everything. 

 

His eyes open to find Chris looking at him with care in his eyes. He reaches out but Peter steps away, holding Josephine close. “Peter,” he pleads. 

 

“Who told you then?” he asks, “Was it Derek? Cora? Or someone else?”  _ Gerard  _ got unsaid, too cruel even for this moment. Chris hesitates. There is an answer, and Peter needs to know it. “Go on,” he says. 

 

“The paper,” Chris says, “The fire was in the paper for weeks. I read the list of those lost. I knew--”

 

“You expect me to believe,” Peter says, voice shaking against his will, “That you were reading local Indiana news over a dozen years ago?”

 

Chris grimaces. “It was when I met Derek. I do research, on those in my children’s life. I remembered it all when it met you.”

 

Peter resists the urge to run a hand over his eyes. Thwarted by the free press, something as insipid as the local Indiana news. “I see,” he says squarely. 

 

“I thought you would tell me,” Chris begs, “I thought surely, once we started talking about adopting. But you didn’t. The more time passed, the more sure I was that you would tell me some day when you were ready. But you never did.” 

 

This peculiar man he loves more than he thought his rotten heart capable of, this man who he knows better than anyone, is  _ infuriating.  _

 

“Did it not occur to you, dear one, to reveal  _ your  _ knowledge to  _ me?”  _

 

“It did,” Chris says honestly, “I did not think you would appreciate it.”

 

“I appreciate none of this,” Peter says. 

 

A part of Chris wants to curl into a ball and put his hands over his head, shelter himself from the blows.  Another part wants to stand silent and resolute, take his punishment, because this is his own fault. He deserves this.  If he had been smarter, if he hadn’t misspoke, if he had just ducked instead of letting the bullet—

 

But no. He hadn’t let Peter succeed in talking him into making that first therapy appointment after months of cajoling just to fold on his husband when Peter needs him most.

 

So instead he keeps his arms carefully at his sides and says steadily, “I am sorry I did not tell you I knew.  And I am sorry you did not tell me.” Peter freezes for an almost imperceptible moment before continuing to bounce Josephine in his arms.  He still won’t properly meet Chris’ eyes, but Chris presses on, because it has to be said.

 

“Neither of us can change the fact the fire happened.  And neither of us can change the fact that E—“

 

“Stop,” Peter says hoarsely, and in his arms Josephine squawks.

 

Chris doesn’t stop.  “—Evan died. But I would help you carry that weight if you let me.”  Because Peter isn’t carrying it at all. Instead he’s stuffed it down so far it’s shackled to his ankles, constantly dragging him back.

 

Air is hissing in and out between Peter’s clenched teeth and he’s holding on to Josephine as if she’s the only thing holding him to a reality that isn’t filled with smoke and flames.

 

“Peter,”. Chris’ voice breaks on the emotion bleeding through his words, “I love you.  Everything I am is yours. Everything I have is yours. All of my secrets are yours.” He clears his throat and wets his lips before forcing himself to continue.  “It is hard for me to share those secrets at times because—“ he fidgets, pressing each finger against his thumbs in turn, “—I am afraid that if the people I care about knew the whole truth...if they knew the ugly, horrible things I’ve done, what I am, they wouldn’t be able to handle it, and I would lose everything that matters.”

 

Peter has stopped rocking Josephine and is now staring sightlessly at Chris’ reflection in the mirror.

 

“But I know that isn’t really true.  I trust you and what we have, and I trust that you can help me carry that.  Please trust me to do the same.”

 

He closes the space between them but doesn’t touch Peter.  Instead he gently pries Josephine from his arms and Peter lets him.

 

“I’m going to change and take our daughter swimming with Beah.  If you decide to join us, that would make me happy. But if you don’t, I will also understand.”

 

He sets Josephine on the bed for only as long as it takes him to strip down and pull on shorts and then he leaves the room, closing the door behind him.


	26. Chapter 26

Chris finds Stilinski and Isaac O in the kitchen.  They’re both in swim trunks and Stilinski is rooting around in the cooler while Isaac O stares wide eyed at Chris, looking far more sober than he should.  There’s sadness in the wrinkle between his eyebrows and a horrible thought occurs to Chris.

 

“Is your hearing amplified?”

 

“I’m sorry,” he says in lieu of an answer.  “I thought you would have told them all. I didn’t mean to cause—“

 

Stilinski straightens, an intricate tattoo on the left side of his chest.  “Told them about what?”

 

Before Chris can stop him Isaac O says plainly, “About Kate killing the Hales.  About Peter’s son dying.”

 

Stilinski spits food across the room.  “Peter had another kid?”

 

***********

 

Isaac walks into the main room when he hears voices. He catches the other Stiles spit actual food across the actual room. “Are we still talking about Malia?” he asks.

 

Chris is clearly caught off guard by his presence which is weird because Isaac was always in the next room over, he was bound to show up sometime. “Malia’s not Peter’s kid,” he says, to clarify in case anyone was confused. “So it doesn’t matter.”

 

“Right,” Chris says, cutting a look toward the others that Isaac can’t read. “Isaac, is your family ready to swim?”

 

Isaac gestures to his new blue swim trunks, “Duh,” he says. “Bay Bay is stupid tired, but she’s staying up because she won’t even consider lying down without doing the ‘big swim.’” 

 

He notices that while the other Isaac still has his shirt on, the other Stiles is shirtless and sporting a detailed tattoo on the left side of his chest, in the exact same place as his Stiles’s tattoo, but in a different design. While Stiles has a labyrinth with walls made of grounding names and phrases, this Stiles has an anatomically correct heart with a moon over it. It’s beautiful.

 

“Get Stiles and Beah,” Chris says in his mission voice for some reason, “And we will go downstairs to the pool. 

 

“Did Stiles show you we got JoJo swim diapers?” Isaac asks. 

 

“He already gave them to me,” Chris says. “If you want to bring more food to the pool I’m sure no one would object.”

 

“You can’t bring food to a  _ pool _ , Chris,” Isaac says, “It’s against the pool rules.” He backtracks into the bedroom where Beah is in her Tangled swimsuit and watching Tangled on Stiles’ iPad. She looks up when he comes in. 

 

“Swimming?” she asks hopefully.

 

“Swimming,” he confirms. 

 

Beah squeals and runs to the bathroom, coming out a moment later with towels piled high in her arms and Stiles in tow, shirtless and wearing the colorful trunks the other Stiles picked out. “Finally,” he says, “I feel like we’ve been talking about this for weeks.”

 

Isaac laughs at both of them. “Beah they’ll have towels there.” 

 

“No they won’t!” Beah insists and walks past him into the main room. Stiles smiles and shrugs. Isaac eyes his tattoo, groundingly familiar. When Stiles goes to walk past him Isaac stops him with a hand on his chest, which he moves to trace over where his name is tattooed into the labyrinth. With two fingers her runs over his name, moving to find Beah’s name and Malia’s between the mantras. 

 

“Hey,” Stiles breathes. 

 

“Hey.”

 

Stiles brings his hand to the back of Isaac’s neck, and pulls him down for a kiss. “There’s two beds in Grandpa’s room,” he says, “Maybe Beah wants to have a sleepover with JoJo tonight.

 

“I don’t know, something's off with Chris,” Isaac whispers, “Peter’s not out there with him and it sounded like they were fighting.”

 

“We can barely hear them,” Stiles says, even though he knows that Isaac can pick up on the emotional intent of the way someone’s step creaks across a house. Still pressed close to him he says, “Come on, this is what grandparents are for. If the others get to fuck twice in a day we should get to too.”

 

Isaac kisses Stiles on the cheek and pulls away. “Seriously, know that I want to. I just don’t think it’s right tonight.”

 

Stiles groans and squeezes his hand. “Alright,” he said, “But we are owed a Grandpa and Uncle Peter sleepover very soon.”

 

“Agreed,” Isaac says, then leads Stiles into the main room by the hand. 

 

Beah has clearly conned the other Stiles into holding on the towels, and the other Isaac into holding her. When she sees them she says, “Come on! All the water is going to vaporate!” 

 

Chris smiles tightly at her and glances at them. Isaac wonders if he can see that he and Stiles were just on each other. He hopes not. “Come on then,” Chris says, “The water is going to evaporate.”

 

***********

 

Isaac feels like shit.  Like actual, literal shit.  He’s just ruined someone’s life.  He’s just ruined someone’s relationship.  That’s what he is, a ruiner of things. Everything he touches just—

 

“O!  Come swim!”  He’s jerked from his spiraling by Beah’s imperious demands.  She’s in Isaac 2.0’s arms splashing and laughing and screaming at him to get in the water.  She radiates total, complete, ignorance is bliss joy, and he would be a real asshole to ruin it.

 

Plus, Stiles is already in the pool, wet and slippery and mouth watering delicious.

 

He pulls off his shirt without thinking, and as he sets it on the pool chair Beah makes a distressed noise.

 

“You have so many scars, O!  Not as much as Uncle Peter, but he got burneded and then he made them colors!  Do they hurt?”

 

He forces himself to relax and smile, trying to think like he was a three year old and not a twenty something trauma survivor.  He sits on the edge of the pool and when Beah tugs on Isaac 2.0’s hair and points, he indulges her by floating over to Isaac.

 

“They don’t hurt, Beah.  Scars don’t hurt.” Lie. “You can touch them if you want to.”  Please don’t.

 

But she reaches out a tentative hand, far more tentative than when she’d poked Stiles’ forehead, and runs it across the scar on his left side and then the scar across his stomach.  Isaac almost forgets they exist these days.

 

Isaac 2.0 looks confused.  “I thought your...you know…” he points to his eyes with the hand not supporting Beah, “would have fixed those.

 

He snorts.  “Yeah if only.  It didn’t do shi— crap for the stuff that happened before.”

 

Beah slaps the water, splashing them both.  “Swim with me!”

 

He obediently slips into the water, then says, “Hey Beah, wanna see something else?”

 

Isaac 2.0’s eyes widen and Isaac rolls his and turns his back to them.

 

“Ohhhhh!” Beah gasps again but this time in delight.  “It’s a wolf! Like what we pretended! Daddy, read the words!”

 

Isaac recites them silently as Isaac O says them aloud.  “ _ Words are futile devices. Landscape changed my point of view.” _

 

“Papa has words, too!  Papa, come show O your words!”

 

Isaac has already seen Stiles 2.0’s tattoo. He’s intrigued by the fact both his Stiles and this world’s Stiles chose to place tattoos in the same place, and as far as he can see, they both chose tattoos of grounding.  They’re not as obviously alike as he and his other self, but he thinks they’re more alike than they admit.

 

Of course his Stiles is the superior one, but he can keep that to himself.

 

Stiles 2.0 swims over to his little family at the same time strong, familiar arms slip around Isaac.

 

“Hey,” he says, breathless.

 

“Hey,” Stiles says against the side of his neck.  “Water looks super good on you, have I ever told you that?”

 

Before he can answer he gets struck full face with a violent splash of water.  Both he and Stiles sputter and spit as other Stiles howls with laughter. “I finally figured it out!  They’re like cats, Isaac! We just need spray bottles!”

 

Stiles puts up his middle finger and Beah gapes.  “That’s rude, Mischief!”

 

Stiles grins, wide and toothy.  “Yeah.”

 

Beah is already on to the next thing, yelling over her shoulder.  “Grandpa! Bring JoJo! I want to show her my underwater breath!”

 

Chris is in the shallow end of the pool, reclined back against the wall and gently floating Josephine on her back in his arms.  His head jerks up when Beah calls, like he’s almost forgotten they exist. His eyes go from them to the passageway from the hotel to the pool, and when he sees it’s still empty, the peace in his face dissolves into pain which is quickly masked into absolute blankness.

 

Isaac feels like shit. Like actual, literal shit. He’s just ruined someone’s life. He’s just ruined someone’s relationship. Because that’s what he is, a ruiner of things.

 

***********

 

Beah has never been happier. They have her in toddler swim classes, because if they ever move back to Chicago they want her to be a strong swimmer, with the lake and the pool at Chris’s apartment. And maybe partially because, no matter what Isaac thinks about it, he is the son of a swim coach and he grew up with the idea that swimming was an essential survival skill. 

 

These days though, it’s mostly fun. He carefully guides Beah to swim over to the other Isaac who she climbs on immediately. Isaac watches her arms and legs to make sure she’s secure, and he catches a glimpse of the scar across the other Isaac’s stomach. 

 

It makes his blood run cold. He can’t imagine what caused it, or maybe he can imagine too easily. He had assumed that because the other Isaac didn’t have a scar on his cheek from the night Creek died, like Isaac did, the wolf bite had disappeared all his scars. He envied him for it. 

 

Seeing new scars, his overly analytical brain is trying to backtrack to what caused them, what another universe’s Creek did that his Creek didn’t do? It’s too much. 

 

“Hey,” Stiles swims up, “Are you having fun or?”

 

Isaac turns to him and forces a smile. “I’m glad we’re swimming,” he says. 

 

“Oh me too,” Stiles says, sounding half sarcastic, “Swimming with alternative universe versions of myself was totally on my bucket list. Seriously,” Stiles jumps out of the water and hooks his arms over Isaac’s back so his mouth is next to his ear, “You look like you’re far away. Where’s your brain?”

 

“Indiana,” Isaac admits. 

 

“Okay,” Stiles says, “You wanna stay there, or you wanna come back to Alabama? It’s pretty cool here, I’m here and your daughter and your dad is here and your weird stepdad is off somewhere and there are brownies all over our hotel bed.”

 

Isaac leans back and kisses Stiles. “I’m here,” he says, “I’m always here. 

  
  
  



	27. Chapter 27

A little known fact about Peter. 

 

He can sulk with the best of them. 

 

He spent hours--months--laid up in a hospital bed with nothing to occupy him but his dark thoughts. He could barely move his head without excruciating pain, so he stared at the ceiling and allowed memories of the fire to flood him. 

 

The hotel bed is more comfortable than the hospital bed. He climbs in and pulls the duvet over his head and breathes in the trapped hot air. He fights to control his breathing but tears fall unbidden down his cheeks, soaking into the plush bedding. 

 

He feels like he's six years old. 

 

There is no magic in this world that allows for second chances. He’s looked. There is no magic that will allow him to go back in time and tell Chris the truth of his own free will, at the right time and in the right place. More desperately, there is no magic that will give him Evan back. 

 

Some nights he wakes Chris with nightmares. Chris strokes his tear stained cheeks and asks nothing, but Peter assumed that Chris thought he dreamt of the fire. What he didn't know was that he always dreamed of Evan, young and happy, being torn away from him over and over again. 

 

He hasn’t had a good cry like this in years. The last time was when he came home after seeing a young boy at the store with the same stuffed rabbit Evan favored. He didn’t have the words when Chris found him in their newly shared apartment, sobbing behind the kitchen island. Chris didn’t ask for them. 

 

Maybe that was their problem. 

 

He wipes his face and risks coming out from under the covers. Just his head. Just to start. His family is outside at the pool, and Chris is waiting for him. Chris gave him a choice, but he knows Chris is waiting for him. 

 

Peter can sulk with the best of them, but he does not allow himself to stay there long. 

 

At the very least, his absence will tip off that there is something wrong, to Isaac’s family and to the alts. That will not do, especially with Allison on her way. 

 

His presence may cause a stir as well. When he swims at the lake, his body draws stares. His right side is nearly untouched, but his left is a mess of artificial skin and disgusting scar tissue. He feels people’s stares, even as he lies on his towel and pretends not to be bothered. He’s made a life of pretending such a thing. 

 

He once had a conversation about his scars, late at night after several drinks on his part, with Isaac. Isaac for once had stayed sober throughout an entire family party and he and Peter were the last ones up in Chris’s apartment. During a well intentioned attempt to clean up Isaac spilled dish water on Peter’s shirt, and unthinking Peter peeled it off. 

 

Isaac looked at him then looked away. 

 

“You can look,” Peter said evenly. They had been to the lake multiple times before, and Peter noticed that Isaac carefully never looked at his left side. 

 

But that night Isaac did. 

 

“I don’t--” he started then stopped. “I don’t even like Stiles seeing me shirtless. And I mine aren’t--I’m sorry.”

 

“Yours aren’t as bad?” Peter asked, “If this is a contest, I would like to object to not having won many prizes.”

 

“I’m sorry,” Isaac repeated. 

 

“The only reason I would hide my scars,” Peter said, “is if I was ashamed of them. We have nothing to be ashamed of. Either of us.” 

 

He was lying of course. Isaac had nothing to be ashamed of, but Peter was ashamed, deeply. They were the scars of a man who wasn’t fast enough, who didn’t do enough, who allowed himself to be pinned. Strutting around in a swimsuit meant nothing. 

 

So it would mean nothing tonight. 

 

He could put on a show. 

 

On the elevator ride down he examines his eyes in the mirrored wall. No one who isn’t paying attention would know that he had been crying. 

 

Chris would be paying attention. 

 

He walks the short pathway to the medium sized pool. From the distance he can see Isaac holding Beah, with Stiles and the alts standing around her. Chris is standing to the side, holding Josephine carefully. He is focusing on them, but Peter notices that without much time passing he looks back at the pathway and spots Peter. 

 

Peter lifts a hand in a wave. 

 

***********

 

“Holy shit,” Stiles says, causing both their other selves and Isaac to whip their heads toward the direction of his stare.  “Your Peter definitely wins over ours in cool points.”

 

Peter is strolling nonchalantly toward the pool, with a warm smile for Beah and then eyes only for Chris and Josephine.  He’s wearing the tacky ass swim trunks Stiles’ tacky ass double picked out and they do absolutely nothing to hide the fact that the left side of his body, from his chest down, is a twisted mass of scar tissue.  It’s a stark reminder of the Hale fire, something that, in their world, Stiles could almost forget even happened, because none of the living Hales bear any physical signs.

 

But the scars and tissue grafts are almost a secondary shock, because over and around them all are wildly colorful tattoos.  It both distracts and highlights the scars, and somehow it seems like the most Peter thing ever. He can’t identify a theme that ties them together; he picks out a toucan, a pattern that vaguely reminds him of a fabric swatch, and a tangling, twisting vine around a branch, but those are just three amongst over a dozen.

 

While Beah predictably gasps at his mild language usage, Isaac looks at him with raised eyebrows.

 

Stiles shrugs, “What? I can give credit where credit’s due.  Doesn’t mean I don’t still think he’s a douche. He’s now just a douche with mild cool factor.”

 

Peter reaches the edge of the pool and looks pointedly at Stiles.  “Staring is considered rude in this universe. Perhaps the mores are different in yours?”  Then he summarily dismisses him as he slides into the pool and makes his way to Chris. As soon as he reaches Chris one of his hands joins Chris’ in supporting Josephine and Chris immediately shifts closer so that their shoulders are just barely brushing.

 

Seeing the two of them together is still horrifying on a level Stiles can’t even explain, but he’s also - completely unwilling he would like it to be noted - starting to see how, in this world, they make a kind of sense.

 

The realization makes him feel mildly ill.

 

Peter is speaking in low tones to Chris and Stiles turns his back to them to face Isaac.  “Can you hear what they’re saying?”

 

Isaac makes a face.  “I’m trying not to. It’s private.”

 

Which Stiles knows, and is of course why he asked Isaac.  He leans in closer to Isaac, brushing his lips across his cheek bone on the way to his ear, ensuring the Others will be more irritated than paying attention.  “Are we planning to talk about earlier?”

 

Isaac rubs his cheek against Stiles’, tracing a finger over the heart of his tattoo and then drifting over to his mark.  He whispers back, just as low.

 

“Yeah.  Later, though.”

 

It’s the tiniest bit uncomfortable that Isaac knows something about this world’s Peter that only Chris also seems to know.  Because that means Isaac probably knows it because he knows it about their Peter. And the fact that their Peter possibly got close enough to Isaac for him to glean unknown details raises every protective hackle Stiles has.

 

“Mischief!”  Beah’s shrill demand brings him back to the present.

 

“What up, Bay?”  He puts a respectable six inches between he and Isaac.

 

“I don’t like you as much as O, but I still like you.  But I like my daddies best.” She says it super earnest, and Stiles nods back seriously.

 

“Seems fair.  I think O is the coolest, too.”

 

“I’m gonna go visit Grandpa and Uncle Peter now.”

 

Other Isaac makes a noise in the back of his throat.  “Beah, I think Grandpa and Peter are—“

 

“We would love for Beah to join us,” Chris interrupts.  Stiles doesn’t miss he looks far more engaged than he had prior to Peter’s arrival.

 

Stiles hates this world so much.

 

Isaac comes up behind him and murmurs into his hair, “Do you think we can leave now?”

 

Yes.  Jesus, yes.

 

“Okay,” Stiles says abruptly to the pool, “we’re outtie.  Promise we won’t run away or eat any strangers. See you all in the morning.  Also, still probably gonna drink more of the minibar.”

 

***********

 

Josephine is alert when they get upstairs, and while Chris showers, Peter paces their small hotel room bouncing, as he goes, trying to get her to go down. Evan was a fussy baby; his wails permeated the entire Hale mansion and a young Derek used to complain constantly about his cousin’s crying. 

 

Evan’s cries sometime ring in his head when Josephine is silent, in almost every way the baby that Evan wasn’t. It should make it easier. 

 

She quietly falls asleep in his arms, and he carefully places her in the dubious hotel crib, keeping a hand on her chest to watch her breathing. She is alive. She is alive. She is alive. 

 

Chris comes out of the bathroom with steam billowing behind him. His grey hair is sticking up wildly with the water, and the towel is slung low on his hips. He looks like a delectable treat, and if Peter weren’t licking his wounds, he would devour him. 

 

But he is, so he stays crouched by Josephine and keeps his eyes on her. 

 

“Shower’s free,” Chris says. 

 

“I can see that,” Peter says. 

 

“Peter--”

 

“Don’t mistake my joining the family for resolution, Christopher. We aren’t having a little spat. This is very serious.”

 

Chris doesn’t stray from where he is standing by the bathroom door. “I know that Peter,” he says, “I would never presume you have forgiven me. What I did was unforgivable. I should not have ever--”

 

Peter lifts a hand, “No,” he says, “Not that either. Self-flagellation helps none of us, and it is something you are supposed to be working on in therapy, is it not?” 

 

Chris takes a stutter step towards him, and Peter hates himself for putting Chris in this state, but he can’t help it. Chris doesn’t deserve to feel this way, but neither does Peter. “It is,” Chris admits, “But, sometimes it’s more a matter of accuracy than--”

 

“No,” Peter says, “We both made mistakes. Yours are not worse than mine. You do not have to be the hero of the world, Christopher.” 

 

It’s at that moment that everything holding Chris together finally snaps.  He’s exhausted, his dangerous world has suddenly become exponentially more dangerous and unknown, and the one person he has let himself become dependent on has withdrawn into a cold shell over something that Chris has  _ no control over _ .  This was exactly why Gerard had discouraged his children from forming attachments.  They left you  _ vulnerable. _

 

_ “ _ Yes,” he answers Peter calmly, “You’re right, of course.”

 

He walks to the open suitcase and pulls out a t-shirt and jeans rather than pajamas.  He dresses quickly and doesn’t look at Peter until he is done.

 

Peter is watching curiously, and Chris nods to Josephine.  “If you don’t plan to shower, I assume you don’t mind staying with Jo.  I’m going downstairs to find a decent drink and answer the twenty texts Allison sent while we were swimming.  I think we agree Stilinski and Isaac O aren’t the current threat, and even if they were, we also both know you’re capable of handling it.  Text if you need me, I can be back to the room in thirty seconds. Otherwise let me know when you are prepared to have a conversation about this that actually allows me to finish my sentences and air valid emotions. I’ve been working on my right to those in therapy as well.”

 

Just for once he doesn’t wait for Peter to answer or acknowledge him but instead bends to press his lips to the top of his forehead and Josephine’s.  Then he walks out of the room and out of the suite and straight to the bar.

 

After all, he doesn’t have to be the hero of the world.


	28. Chapter 28

It’s only nine when they get back to their hotel room, but Stiles personally is bone deep exhausted. Beah fell asleep on a lawn chair while Isaac was putting her shoes on, and Isaac had to carry her upstairs. She wakes up for long enough to change from her swimsuit into pajamas then tuckers out in the hotel bed with wet hair, teeth unbrushed.

 

“She’ll get cavities,” Isaac says, “and it’s past her bedtime. We’re going to go down in history as the worst ever parents.”

 

“We got six adult men to go swimming in the middle of a heist because she wanted to,” Stiles counters, “We’re pretty great.” Stiles runs his hands through his stiff drying hair. “We need to shower.”

 

Isaac raises his eyebrows. “We?”

 

Stiles smirks and gestures to a sleeping Beah. “We’ll hear her if she wakes up, but she totally won’t. If you want to...”

 

“No,” Isaac says, stepping forward to grab the front of Stiles wet shirt. “I totally do.”

 

They kiss and they kiss and they kiss some more as they messily undress and trip their way into the shower.  Stiles feels like it’s been years since they’ve made out like this, hot and heavy like they don’t have bills and a three year old and a host of other annoying adult worries.  

 

Isaac locks the bathroom door, just in case, and Stiles stands back long enough for Isaac to get the temperature right.  As soon as he’s satisfied, Stiles steps in, closes the curtain behind them, and nudges Isaac gently against the back of the shower.  The heat from the shower intensifies the smell of lingering pool water, and Stiles sticks his face into Isaac’s neck and sniffs.

 

He pulls back and says lovingly, “Hey, chlorine face.”

 

“Wow,” Isaac deadpans back, “Sexy.  I am so turned on right now.”

 

Stiles looks down and grins.  “Yeah you are.”

 

Isaac leans back against the shower wall and reaches his arms around to grab a handful of Stiles’ ass.  “I know. It’s disgusting.”

 

Stiles wants to make a witty reply, he really does, but Isaac is groping him, and they’re more or less alone for the first time in three days.  He’s got higher priorities.

 

“So,” he says conversationally while doing his own groping, “I’m thinking...a little frotting, maybe some intercrural, possibly escalating to full o—“

 

Isaac grabs his hand and moves it between their bodies and whatever Stiles had intended to say gets lost in a moan that gets muffled by the happy occurrence of Isaac’s tongue in his mouth.

 

Stiles wraps a hand around both of them, presses as close to Isaac as his movements will allow and prays that a hotel this fucking fancy has really great water heaters.

 

**********

 

Stiles stops with the mini bottle at his mouth.  “So this Peter had a kid.”

 

Isaac nods.

 

“And it died in the fire.”

 

Isaac nods again.  “ _ He. _  He died in the fire.  Evan. He was two.”

 

Stiles chugs the mini bottle in one go, then switches it out for another.  “Fuck.”

 

Isaac nods again.

 

Stiles unscrews the cap and goes through the motion of offering it to Isaac, unsurprised when he shakes his head.  “And you know this because our Peter had a kid. Other than Malia.”

 

Isaac’s nod is more hesitant this time.

 

“And his kid also died in the fire.”

 

Isaac grimaces before his confirming nod.

 

Stiles takes a healthy swig of - he checks the label and makes a face - peppermint schnapps and lets out a long, gusting, “Fuckkkkk.”

 

They sit in silence for a moment before Stiles hardens.  “Okay that sucks for our Peter. Like hardcore. But that doesn’t...that doesn’t excuse him biting Scott, or trying to kill us, or basically non-conning Lydia into resurrecting him.  Or like, the other ten plots he hatched before we left.”

 

Isaac flops down and puts his head in Stiles’ lap and Stiles reflexively tangles his free hand in his curls.  “I didn’t say it did.”

 

“But you’re looking at me with that—“ Stiles makes a vague gesture with the mini bottle as Isaac tilts his head to see, “—‘ _ why can’t you just like all these supposedly reformed evil people look. _ ’  You know, the one you gave me for weeks after that whole Jennifer Blake thing.”

 

Stiles sifts his fingers through Isaac’s hair as he finishes off the schnapps and Isaac makes a happy noise and pushes into his grip.  “Hey, I don’t like Peter either! I just think, I don’t know, maybe you could stop blaming  _ this _ Peter for stuff that Peter did.”

 

“This Peter isn’t some Debbie Do Good, either.  Come on, you heard them.”

 

Isaac tilts his head back further and smiles beautifically.  “Neither am I, but you still love me.”

 

Stiles grins back.  “Hell yeah I do. And okay, I get the point, this weirdo Chris loves this weirdo Peter, too.  I’ll try to be nicer.” 

 

“This Chris isn’t weird.  He’s almost exactly the same as our Mr. Argent.  Just without, you know, the hunter part.”

 

Stiles doesn’t answer because he doesn’t like what it seems Isaac is trying to imply, and luckily he’s saved by the obvious sound of a door closing.

 

“What’s that?”

 

Isaac is frowning now and Stiles lightly traces around his lips.  “What?”

 

“They’ve been fighting.  Because Chris knew and Peter didn’t know he knew.  About Evan. And about what happened in our reality.  But then I told my 2.0 about the fire. Not about Evan.  Because I didn’t realize they wouldn’t have—. I just assumed!  Because Mr. Argent has moved past the whole not communicating with your team thing.  I thought he would have too! And now this is all my fault!”

 

Stiles has years of Isaac speak behind him so he translates the train of half sentences as the come.  “Okay, first, not your fault. You’re right, they should have talked and I assumed they shared everything with the class, too.  And two, babe, they’re fighting. It’s not the end of the world. You’ve seen them. They’ll fight. They’ll work it out. Then they’ll probably fuck.  Ewgrossmybraaaaain!” 

 

Isaac snickers and the frown disappears and Stiles leans down low and kisses him.  “This is their problem, not ours. Okay?”

 

“Okay.”

 

*******************

 

The shower is good. 

 

The shower is very good. 

 

Stiles barely gets boxers and a t-shirt on before he trip falls into bed and starts falling asleep. Isaac fishes into Stiles’ bag for his meds and shakes him awake enough to take them before letting him fall asleep. 

 

“You’re making me feel like a nurse,” Isaac grumbles, “I dropped out of nursing school for a reason.”

 

“Yeah,” Stiles slurs, “Cause you were too sexy to stick in scrubs for the rest of your life. Mmm too sexy by far.” And with that he’s asleep. 

 

Isaac crawls into bed next to him. One of his favorite things about being on a night sleep schedule is that he gets to sleep next to Stiles. For the first part of their relationship they never slept together because Isaac was locked into a third shift sleep cycle. He wonders if the other Isaac ever worked overnights, after the graveyard. He hopes not. 

 

He checks his phone for the dozens of incoming texts from Allison. The most recent of which was  _ something is wrong with dad. go check on him. _

 

Isaac’s post-sex brain remembers that Chris and Peter were fighting. And he yelled at Chris back at the rest stop. That feels like a thousand years ago. He rubs his eyes and texts her back. 

 

_ how do you know? _

 

_ How do I ever? I’m a Dad genius Isaac.  _

 

Isaac starts typing a reply, but it never sends. He falls asleep with his phone in his hand. 

 


	29. Chapter 29

Peter doesn’t sleep. 

 

He dwells.

 

Chris was hurt by the way he spoke to him. To Peter’s mind he was just speaking the truth, and he would have thought that Chris valued the truth above all else, but Peter stepped on his every word. Something that he should have known was wrong. 

 

There was a long lag period when he and Chris first got together where Peter didn’t know how to be in a couple. He finished off leftovers without checking if Chris wanted them for his lunch, he stole all the blankets and he lied. Casually, inconsequentially, but he lied. Chris was patient, and kind and gently reminded him that he might enjoy leftover ravioli as well. He took care not to make Peter feel like a wild animal. 

 

Care that Peter had not taken. 

 

This is his fault, more than Chris’. Peter was the one who lied. 

 

The clock reads 1:47 when he feels Chris climb into bed behind him. He can smell the whisky on him, and feel the weight of his body inches from him. Not touching. Not touching anywhere. 

 

“I thought about you texting you,” he whispers in the dark. 

 

“You could have,” Chris says. 

 

“I figured you could handle yourself.”

 

Chris is silent, and Peter feels the implication. Chris shouldn’t have to handle it by himself. He is Peter’s husband, his vowed partner in everything. 

 

“Good night then,” Peter says. 

 

“Night.” 

 

Peter isn’t sure how either of them sleep. When Josephine cries in the night he gets up to take care of her. Chris wakes up too, sits up in bed, but just watches them quietly until she settles again. They don’t speak.  

 

At 4:00 AM on the dot he wakes up to Chris moving in the bed. Peter blearily sits up and whispers, “What are you doing?” 

 

Chris glances at him, but puts his focus back on pulling on jeans almost immediately. “I have to go pick up Allison and Scott at the airport. 

 

“Their flight doesn’t land for two hours,” Peter says, “You can sleep longer.”

 

Chris bristles. “I know how I want to handle this, thank you.”

 

Peter sighs and lies back in bed. “I suppose you’ve had quite enough of my opinions.” 

 

“Yes,” Chris says simply. 

 

That’s enough. Peter gets out of bed and risks touching Chris to guide him out of the bedroom. Chris allows it, frowning as he goes. Josephine has been asleep for over two hours and he’s not risking waking her up with this. 

 

“I hurt you last night,” Peter says. He’s thought on this for hours, and the undeniable conclusion is that he is in the wrong in many ways. 

 

“It’s fine,” Chris says. 

 

“It’s not fine with me,” Peter says. “We are not meant to hurt one another.” 

 

Chris sighs. “No. We aren’t.” 

 

How could he go about this without apologizing? “I regret cutting you off and not allowing you to air your emotions, as you have a right to.” Chris stares at him, waiting. “I was wrong.”

 

Chris hums. “I need to get going. Allison will be very upset if I’m late.” 

 

“Christopher,” Peter begs, “What do you want? I’ve said that I regret what I said.”

 

Chris goes to the safe in the hall closet and spins the dial. “Since you feel so acquainted with what I am working on in therapy, I would think you know that raising the standard of what kind of treatment I accept has been an important part of it.” He retrieves the knife holster which he straps onto his back, allowing Peter to help when he offers. 

 

Peter does know that, or he should have. He never would have thought that his treatment of Chris was below the new, healthy standard that Chris was setting with Jaime’s help. 

 

With the holster attached, Chris reaches into the safe and retrieves two ring daggers and sheaths them. He glances at Peter. “I’m sorry,” he says. “That was more pointed than I intended. I shouldn’t lash out at you because I am in pain.” 

 

The words feel familiar somehow, but Peter isn’t sure why. “It’s my fault you’re in pain. I shouldn’t have taken it out on you. You--you can’t imagine the pain of losing a child, Chris. I wouldn’t begin to know what you went through with Victoria--”

 

Chris’s eyelids flicker closed for a moment, but he pulls his focus back to Peter. 

 

“--and I can’t begin to describe the agony I have experienced over losing Evan. I hid it from you because I thought if I could keep that pain out of this relationship, I could avoid it all together.”

 

“But you couldn’t,” Chris says plainly. “Perhaps it’s my fault for not revealing my knowledge sooner, perhaps it’s not. That does not make me responsible for your pain.”

 

No. How could Chris ever think he thought that? “No, it doesn’t,” Peter says. He wishes they weren’t standing in a strange hotel suite a thousand miles from their apartment in Chicago. He wishes Chris weren’t armed and about to leave and bring even more people into this mess. 

 

“Then I do not bear the consequences,” Chris says. He pulls his t-shirt over the daggers. “Why do I feel like I’m doing too much of the work in this conversation?”

 

“Because you are,” Peter admits, “I’m sorry.” 

 

I’m not good enough for you.

 

Chris looks at him for more than a second for the first time this morning. “You’re sorry.”

 

“I’m sorry,” Peter says, “I’m sorry for cutting you off, and lashing out at you. I was wrong.”

 

All of Chris’ pieces come back together and the room refills with oxygen.  

 

He hooks a finger into the waistband of Peter’s sleep pants and gently tugs him to him.  He buries his face in his neck and murmurs, “Thank you. I’m sorry, too.”

 

Chris lets out a shuddering breath and continues, feeling Peter’s fingers hesitantly trace around the outlines of the dagger sheaths under his shirt.  “I wish we weren’t here. I wish we were somewhere I could properly tell you what it means to me for you to tell me that. Somewhere I could properly  _ show  _ you.”

 

Then he sighs and steps back, while keeping one hand still tangled in Peter’s clothes.  “But we are here, and I really do have to pick up Allison and Scott.”

 

Peter’s smile is small and soft and while the tightness around his eyes isn’t completely gone, it’s lighter now.  “It’s alright. We have time. I’ll consider that a promise to look forward to.”

 

Chris hesitates, but Jaime has told him a million times he should ask for what he needs and should trust that the people he loves are strong enough to hear it.  “Peter, I need you to promise me that we will talk about what happened today. Whether it is on this trip or when we get home. We will talk about the fire and Evan and our families.  Promise me we won’t bury it or any of the other things we’ve avoided because they’re emotional landmines.  _ You _ showed me how closed off I had made myself and now I need you to help us keep growing together.”

 

He stops, feeling as out of breath as if he had run a marathon.  But he had said it and his voice hadn’t shaken at all. He feels Jaime would be proud.

 

Peter is less happy about this request, Chris can tell, but after a brief pause he covers Chris’ hand with his own and nods.  “We will. But, Christopher…”. Peter looks away and then back, meeting Chris’ eyes. “I can’t guarantee there won’t be more moments like this.  Where I say things I will be sorry for. I am, as you know, a work in progress.”

 

Chris laughs quietly and presses his forehead to Peter’s.  “We’re undoing a lifetime of habits. I think we will both have missteps and moments we regret. I don’t care, as long as we’re going in the same direction.  I don't need you to be perfect, because you're perfect for  _ me _ .”

 

They stay close for another moment, breathing each other’s air, and then Peter snorts and carefully nudges him away.  “You’re a hopeless romantic, Christopher Argent-Hale. Go pick up your child so this cluster-fuck can really take off.”

 

“I love you, too, Peter Argent-Hale.  Hold the fort down until we get back.”

  
  



	30. Chapter 30

Allison is rarely pissed off.  Irritated, sure. Filled with righteous anger, absolutely.  But full throttle, one hundred percent, punch someone’s teeth out pissed off?  Hardly ever.

 

Right now she is  _ pissed off _ .  Not only are her father and brother either batshit insane or involved in some kind of Buffy the Vampire hijinks, and not only had they both avoided her and then tried to vague status their way out of it, but now her dear, loving brother had not even bothered to answer her Very Clear Instructions to check on their dad.

 

“You’re doing the eyebrow frown thing, Ally,” Scott whispers as they make their way off the plane and into the de-boarding corridor.

 

“No I’m not,” she snaps back.  She’s glad they were able to leave August with Cora and Lydia.  She’d hate for him to have to witness his mother tear his grandfather a new one.

 

Scott laughs and slings an arm over her shoulder.  “Yeah you are. But it’s totally sexy. I can’t believe you’re not excited about this.  We could be about to see—“ he looks around to make sure no one is paying attention, “- _ werewolves _ .”

 

“Or, conversely,” she says peevishly, “we could be about to commit the majority of our family to a residential treatment facility for  _ folie a deux.” _

 

“I suppose it’s a possibility.” Scott sounds supremely unconcerned about the idea. “But the facts as you’ve stated them don’t seem to support that conclusion.”

 

“Are you trying to lawyer speak me?”

 

“Why, does it turn you on?”

 

“It’s making me flashback to helping you prep for the bar.”

 

“Hey, those were some pretty sexy times!”

 

They take the escalator to the baggage claim area and Scott almost immediately spots her dad.  “There he is. He’s by himself.”

 

Her dad looks...exhausted.  And just the tiniest bit like he had in the months after her mother had died, when he was trying to act completely put together for her but sometimes the seams would crack. She had  _ known _ she was right last night about something being up.

 

So she smooths out her eyebrow frown and smiles widely when he catches sight of them.  “Hey Dad!”

 

It’s fine.  She’ll murder Isaac first.

  
  


Scott can tell Allison is upset, and he debates what to do about it. His job is to be there for Allison. He’s frankly excited by all this, but she isn’t. So it’s his job to take care of her, as much as she’ll allow. Scott takes Allison’s hand and hitches his bag strap back up on his shoulder. They head towards Chris who smiles warmly at them. 

 

“Hello you two,” he says. 

 

Allison drops her bag and pulls her dad into a tight hug. He hears her say, “I was almost afraid you wouldn’t be here.”

 

“Of course I’m here,” Chris says. He lets her hug him for as long as she wants, which is over a minute. Scott smiles at curious passers by, who avert their gaze when he acknowledges them. After Allison pulls away, Scott reaches out to shake Chris’s hand. 

 

“Scott,” Chris says. 

 

“Chris,” Scott says, then isn’t able to sustain the formal father-in-law greeting anymore. “Oh man, it’s good to see you. We’ve been travelling for hours and we have so many questions.”

 

Chris nods, “Hold onto them until we get to the car. Have you two eaten breakfast?”

 

“It’s six thirty in the morning, of course we haven’t,” Allison says, retrieving her bag from the ground.

 

Chris nods and starts walking to the door marked for the parking garage. “We could stop for breakfast or we could go back to the hotel and order room service.”

 

“Room service,” Allison says decisively. “I want to see all this for myself.”

 

Chris nods and takes her bag from her. Allison allows it. She reaches back for Scott’s hand and he offers it readily. In the parking lot Scott can identify Chris' chosen rental car immediately, a black SUV. Chris noticeably doesn’t open the trunk for their bags, but rather stacks them on one side of the backseat. Scott climbs into the other side. 

 

Once the car door closes Allison pounces. 

 

“Isaac stopped texting me back last night. Did you see him this morning? Is he alright? Where is Peter and JoJo? Are they back at the hotel? Is everyone safe?”

 

“I’m sure everyone’s safe Allison,” Scott says confidently.

 

“Everyone is safe,” Chris says. “I left at four to make sure I wasn’t late for you, so I haven’t seen them since then. But Peter has texted me that Isaac and Beah are awake, while it appears that the others are still asleep.”

 

Scott’s heartbeat thrills at the mention of the alternate reality versions of Isaac and Stiles. He’s been trying to hide how excited he is by all this, and he thinks he’s doing a pretty good job. He’s always suspected that there was more to the world than plain reality, and this proves it. He’s been up all night between driving August to Lydia and Cora’s, packing, and the flight to Louisiana. All night with any brain energy that wasn’t going to Allison, he’s been thinking about the alternate reality, wondering if there’s a him there, if it’s safe there, if the other versions of the guys are like them or different and how they are different if they are. 

 

He can’t wait. 

 

The drive to the hotel is very short, only fifteen minutes, and Allison spends the entire time peppering Chris with questions. He can’t blame her. She’s been on edge since the phone call from their sitter, and it’s been getting worse. He’s not sure she’ll feel better until she sees everything with her own eyes. 

 

“How do you know they’re real?” she demands. 

 

“I’ve touched Stilinski,” Chris says, “Peter, Isaac, Stiles, and Beah see and interact with them too. They eat food and take up space. They’re real, Allison.”

 

Allison sighs. “And they don’t like me?” she asks.

 

“No one said that.”

 

“I can tell,” she says, “They were weird on the phone, if that really was them.”

 

“They’re not your brother or Stiles,” Chris concedes.

“They are distinct people.” He turns into a hotel parking garage and parks in a far corner, next to Stiles’ car. “We think that they will react well to seeing Scott. It’s possible that they may have a different reaction to you.”

 

“Why exactly? Did things end badly with me and their Isaac?”

 

*******************

 

Despite his sincere attempts to keep it from happening, Chris finds he is glad Allison is here.  In some way it is because he knows he can be less careful around her than with Isaac. (‘ _ But Isaac has explicitly told you to stop tiptoeing’  _ whispers his brain, in a voice that this morning sounds suspiciously like Peter’s).  Mainly, though, he recognizes the relief comes from having all three of his children here, under his eye, where he can be sure they are safe and protected.  He has tried hard not to be a helicopter parent, to give his older children the tools they need to ensure their own safety, but he has never fooled himself into thinking he isn’t, at his core, overprotective.

 

“I do not think,” he says carefully, side-stepping the actual question, “that you and Isaac ever dated in their reality.  From what I can gather, this Isaac and Stiles have been together since they were quite young. As have that reality’s version of you and Scott.  Also, we are using the names O and Mischief for Isaac O and Stilinski. For the sake of not confusing Beah.”

 

Scott’s  _ awwww _ at hearing he and Allison were childhood sweethearts cuts off as he laughs.  “Oh man, I bet Stiles just loves that.”

 

Chris nods gravely.  “He was not the most pleased but it was Stilinski’s choice and Beah has latched on.”

 

Allison does not let him take her bag this time and he allows it.  As they make their way toward the lobby she persists in her line of questioning.  “How did they they meet so young? Did we adopt Isaac sooner? Did Scott and Stiles come to Chicago earlier?”

 

“As I understand it, one of the many differences between Stilinski and Isaac O’s reality and ours is that Isaac is from Beacon Hills.  And their version of our family moved there when you were a teenager. We— They never adopted Isaac.”

 

“Oh.   _ Oh. _ ”  And then, when they are in the elevator she brings it back around, letting him know he had not succeeded in distracting her.  “So...if we didn’t date, why do you think he’ll freak out?”

 

“I don’t know that he will,” Chris answers delicately.  Then sighs. Honesty. Disclosure. He does not have to be as careful with his children as he thinks.  “One of the similarities between our realities is that the Argents still own and operate Argent Arms. However, in their world the Argents seem to have used that business as a front or as funding for their actual agenda, which is to act as hunters. The Argents came to Beacon Hills to hunt.”

 

Scott makes the connection half a second before Allison, his eyes popping wide and his mouth falling open.  Allison sees his face and narrows her eyes and hits the closed door button when the elevator reaches their floor and tries to eject them.

 

“Wait.  When you say hunt— You said Isaac— that Isaac— is a werewolf.  That in their world the supernatural is real. Did we— Do we _hunt_ _people?”_

 

Chris wishes he did not have to answer in the affirmative, or that he could have any kind of plausible denial.  But it makes complete sense when he thought of his father and his family in the context of the reality Stilinski and Isaac O had described.  So he only grimaces before answering.

 

“Allison, you must remember these people are not us.  We have never hunted werewolves or any other mythical creatures.  But yes, in their reality that is what the Argents did. And I believe their Allison and Isaac O were on opposite sides for a matter of time and that she may have...physically harmed him on multiple occasions.

 

Scott is blinking rapidly as Chris speaks and Chris hastens to reassure them both.  “They assure me that this has long been resolved and that they regularly socialize with their Scott and Allison.  But proceeding delicately might be advised.”

 

“They resolved someone trying to  _ kill them _ ?” Scott says incredulously, just as the door slides open to the startled gaze of housekeeping.

 

Allison smiles sunnily.  “We are totally addicted to  _ Supernatural _ .  Can you believe they started working with  _ Rowena _ ?”

 

The woman visibly relaxes and laughs and Chris feels a welling of pride.  She had handled that so  _ well _ .  Allison and the woman chat for another few seconds and then they trade her the elevator for the hall.

 

It’s only 7:30 and it feels as if he’s been awake for hours.  “I hope everyone is still asleep, but I suspect your brother will be waiting for our arrival.  We can order room service and perhaps catch up before you meet Stilinski and Isaac O.”

 

“I don’t like that you call him Isaac anything,” Allison states baldly.  Chris appreciates where she is coming from but he can’t logically explain how Isaac O is so like Isaac at times that he can’t think of him as anything else, even as he maintains the O to keep his sanity.

 

“I understand,” he replies, and uses his keycard to unlock the suite.


	31. Chapter 31

When Isaac hears the keycard he checks to make sure the noise hasn’t woken Beah. She had been up since five, demanding to be fed and to watch Paw Patrol. Isaac had given in and set them up in the main room of the suite with Stiles’ tablet, where she'd watched two episodes (one more than they liked to allow as a family but he was too tired not to give in) before falling asleep on the couch. Isaac stays in the main room, trying to figure out how to respond to the long email Erica had sent him. 

 

His glance confirms she’s still asleep, but he gets up to respond to whoever is on the other side of the door. 

 

The world is more dangerous than it was two days ago, and he’s relieved when the door opens and reveals Chris, Allison and Scott. 

 

He smiles tentatively at them. “Hey guys.” 

 

Scott breaks out into a grin, but Allison looks him up and down then looks to Chris. “This is Isaac, right?”

 

Somehow Isaac is offended. He knows Allison hasn’t met the other Isaac yet, but it should be obvious who he he is. 

 

“Yes,” Chris says, “This is your brother.”

 

“Beah is asleep,” he says quickly. Everything is too intense for him to enjoy seeing Allison and Scott right now. “If you give me a minute I’ll move her to the bedroom and we can talk. Peter went back to sleep, something about ‘beauty rest.’ JoJo was up for a little while, but she’s asleep now, and we haven’t seen the others all morning.”

 

Chris nods, and Allison gapes at him. “We’re ordering room service,” Chris says. Isaac starts to protest but he holds up a hand. “I know. But we have no suitable breakfast food, and we need to feed ourselves. This is the best way to do it. What do you want?”

 

Isaac tries to come up with something, maybe offer to go to a gas station and get granola bars, but he knows Chris is right. “Oatmeal. With whatever fruit they have.”

 

Chris nods. “Take Beah, we’ll sit down and I’ll call downstairs and start the order.”

 

By the time he gets back from ever so carefully placing Beah back in the bed, Chris is hanging up the hotel phone. Scott grins at him. He’s tapping his leg and Isaac is pretty sure he’s  _ excited  _ while Allison looks measured and careful as she stares at the adjoining suite door. 

 

“I ordered you tea,” Chris says. “We will order again when the family and the others start waking up.”

 

“I want to see them,” Allison says. “I have no proof that they’re really here yet. This could still be a mass delusion.”

 

“You’ll see them,” Isaac says, not commenting on the mass delusion bullshit. Seriously with all they’ve been through, Isaac can’t believe she would think they’re making it up. “They have a way of popping up when it’s least convenient.” 

 

“So you’ve definitely seen them too?” Allison demands. 

 

“Seen them? They’re wearing my clothes. They ate my macrons. I smoked up with the other Isaac.”

 

“O,” Chris gently corrects. 

 

“O. Isaac. Whatever. His name is Isaac. He was named Isaac by the same people who named me. He probably learned about Abraham and Isaac from that same bible TV show I did and nearly murdered someone over the stupid irony of his name, same as I did. I don’t know why we’re being weird about this.”

 

Allison’s eyes look like they’re going to bug out of her head. “You smoked with him?”

 

Of course in this family that is what she would latch onto. “Yeah,” he says, “he’s a cool guy.”

 

Allison looks at him then looks at Chris and looks back. “I’m so pissed at all of you.” 

 

****************************

 

Isaac wakes up tangled with Stiles.  He keeps his eyes closed and turns his nose into the crook of Stiles’ neck and inhales deep.  Soap, hotel shampoo, slightly lingering odor of chlorine. And the ever present scent of Isaac that never totally goes away anymore, any more than Stiles’ scent on Isaac ever completely fades.

 

This, here, is Isaac’s beginning, middle, and end and he knows in his bones that despite Stiles’ humanness, Isaac is the same for him.  Isaac isn’t truly offended by how taken aback their 2.0s are at the intensity of their relationship; even in their own reality common wisdom labels them as unhealthily codependent.  But healthy is relative and beyond that, Isaac just doesn’t care. His world is centered and he’s grown into understanding what it means to belong to himself as well as to Stiles.

 

He lips at the tendon in Stiles’ neck and Stiles, without waking, reflexively slips his fingers into Isaac’s hair and lifts his head to give Isaac freer access.  For a minute, Isaac stays where he is, breathing deep and inhaling peace. Then, he rolls to his back, opens his eyes, and takes stock of what made him wake up at 7:30am without an alarm.  

 

It’s voices.  Coming from the suite’s common room.  A woman’s voice where previously there had only been men and children.  And the smell of food. Greasy, fried, breakfast food. That, more than anything, compels him to leave the heavenly embrace of the no doubt far out of their price range mattress and comforter.

 

He carefully slips out of Stiles’ grasp, cupping the back of his neck lightly when he stirs and only letting go after he settles.  Stiles’ eyes are moving behind his eyelids, evidence of his dreams. Isaac hopes they’re good ones, not ones of monsters or boots with no faces.

 

He pulls on a white t-shirt to go with the softer than soft sleep pants they’d acquired from his 2.0 and runs a perfunctory hand through his hair in a half ass effort to tame it before he opens the door and steps into the living space.

 

He takes in the room as he closes the door noiselessly behind him.  Room service has obviously come and gone, and left behind their blessed gifts of eggs, bacon and toast.  Which are all being eaten by the four people sitting around the small kitchen table.

 

_ Rude _ .

 

His brain finally lets go of its food focus and wakes up enough to take stock of the breakfast hoggers.  Chris and his 2.0 are there, watching him carefully like he’s a ticking time bomb. That’s annoying, because other than that one thing, he thinks he’s been a model trans-dimensional visitor.  He’s not going to lose his shit just because Scott and Bizarro Allison have arrived. Scott, reassuringly, looks almost as much like their Scott as Chris looks like their Mr. Argent, albeit with too much hair gel, but this Allison...she’s another story.

 

She looks flawless, which is understandable, because Allison seemingly won the genetic lottery, but this Allison looks flawless in a way too pulled together way for the hour.  There’s make-up, and styled hair, and she’s wearing a  _ blazer _ .  Unless she’s hunting or has to attend a meeting for Argent Arms, the only thing their Allison wears before 10am is sweats.

 

Isaac scowls at his 2.0.  “Thanks for eating all the food.”

 

Chris stands and says mildly, “Allison and Scott had a long flight and needed to eat.  We planned to order again when everyone else began to wake.”

 

“Hmph” he huffs.  He’s realized, over the years and once he doesn’t have to wake up in terror that he’s overslept and his dad is gonna be angry, that he is not, and hopefully never will be, a morning person. He does it, but he’s never going to like it.

 

“So you,” Allison says, looking him up and down like she’s grading him and he’s utterly failing, “smoked up with my brother.”

 

He pauses for a half a second of insecurity and shame and then— 

 

He feels it happening, sees it happening, but like a third person watching in horror as a car races a train and loses, he’s powerless to stop it.  He cocks an eyebrow and sneers. “Yeah, and? You got a problem with it?”

 

His 2.0’s eyes widen, while Chris’ expression remains solid and unchanged.  Allison’s eyes narrow, and then Scott clears his throat and stands. He smiles and holds out his hand.

 

“Hi, I’m Scott.”

 

“No shit,” Isaac shoots back.

 

The door opens and closes behind him and familiar arms slide around his waist.

 

“Whoa, down boy,” Stiles laughs sleepily as he rests his chin comfortably on Isaac’s shoulder.  “At least until we get Mr. Argent to use his fancy pants credit card to order us breakfast.” Isaac can feel his grin against his jaw as he shifts his voice to the rest of the room.  “Scottie! Allison! This is starting to feel more and more like Beacon Hills.” His voice changes so subtly Isaac is unsure if anyone else catches it. “And I’m not saying that like it’s a great thing.”

 

****************************

 

Scott realizes that no one is going to shake his hand, so he drops it but he doesn’t sit down. He walks around the table closer to New Stiles and New Isaac. New Stiles smiles at him sleepily, looking so familiar that Scott has to remind himself that this isn’t really Stiles. 

 

“Hey Stiles,” he says. 

 

Stiles looks him up and down. “Scottie,” he says. Which is weird, because Stiles doesn’t call him that, like at all, and definitely not twice in one conversation. 

 

“Chris isn’t lying,” he says. “We were going to order breakfast for you guys. Cold breakfast food is the worst, and they’re fast here. So whatever you want, we got it.”

 

New Isaac looks unconvinced, he’s eyeing their breakfast platters, and his eyes narrow when they come to Isaac’s comparatively small bowl of oatmeal and fruit. “Do you just constantly eat like a bird?”

 

Uh oh. Scott isn’t surprised when Allison snaps, “Don’t talk to him about food,” 

 

New Isaac is in a mood that Scott only sees Isaac in in the middle of the night, or at the end of road trips. Isaac is a total morning person, he’s always calm and mellow in the mornings. So this is new. He wonders what other differences there are. 

 

“Don’t tell me what to do,” New Isaac snaps back, “You’re not  _ my  _ sister.” 

 

Isaac, puts down his spoon. “I thought you said you guys got along!” 

 

New Stiles wraps his arm around New Isaac’s chest and pats. “He’s hangry. We do.”

 

“No,” New Isaac says, “We get along with our Scott and Allison. These,” he says looking only at Allison, “aren’t them. Believe me, our Allison would never wear that blazer.”

 

Allison rolls her eyes, “I haven’t changed since work yesterday. I’m sure your Allison has a much better blazer, or wears the latest Californian style, but I like the way I look.” 

 

Allison is taking the presence of the News very calmly, it’s like she’s adjusted to their existence immediately and has discarded her fears of her family experiencing a mass delusion as quickly as she accepted what Scott believed right away: These News are from another dimension. 

 

“I want eggs benedict,” New Stiles announces, “I’ve never had it and I think this is the occasion for it.” 

 

Chris nods and goes to the room phone on the kitchen counter. “That’s fine. Food is important. Isaac, what do you want?”

 

Allison starts and Scott realizes that he’s talking to New Isaac, not Isaac. The others don’t blink. They apparently haven’t noticed. New Isaac grunts out an order, and allows New Stiles to lead him to the green couches a few feet from the kitchen table. Isaac turns towards them, his attention split between them and playing with his oatmeal. Scott sits down in his place at the table and tries not to stare. 

 

“So you two were just able to drop everything and come out here?” New Stiles asks. 

 

“It’s the weekend,” Allison says, “And we both have vacation days stored up. This is something of an emergency, wouldn’t you say?”

 

“I would,” New Stiles agrees, “But seriously, Scott would never leave his patients like that.”

 

“Patients?” Scott asks. “Am I a doctor?”

 

New Stiles barks out a laugh. “Oh man. If Scott knew you said that. No way. You’re a nurse.”

 

Scott feels a glow light from within him. “Wow,” he says, “I never considered nursing, but I’m not surprised another me did. With my mom and everything. Wow. That’s so cool.”

 

New Stiles furrows his brows. “You’re not a nurse then?”

 

“No, I’m a lawyer. I work in real estate law, but like. I work for this big corporation but I take all their pro-bono cases. So it’s like, not totally soul sucking.” 

 

“Big money?” New Stiles asks, raising his eyebrows. 

 

Scott hesitates. “Yeah,” he admits, “But that’s not why I do it.”

 

New Stiles whistles. “Gotta wonder if Scott would have ended up doing something like that if it weren’t for all the True Alpha stuff.”

 

“True alpha?” Scott asks. 

 

****************************

 

Stiles keeps having to remind himself that these guys are total newbies.  That they don’t even get basic terminology. He tries to remember back to 15, to when he was just as clueless.  He remembers being excited. Fascinated. Slightly terrified but mainly full of wonder. Actually, not all that different from how this Scott looks.  Of course that was before he realized how fucking deadly and real all the fantasy come to life shit was. How many people were going to  _ die _ .

 

A part of him literally wants to hug Scott, because he’s  _ so Scott.   _ But he’s not about to do that, especially since something about he and Allison set off Isaac’s douche defense, so instead he tries to cut them some slack on the ignorance front.

 

“Werewolves - weres in general, actually, there’s all different kinds you know - have three power levels.  Betas are most common. Everyday Joe’s of the pack. Foot soldiers. That’s what you are when you first get turned.  Or,” he backs up to fill in the gap, “when you’re born. It’s genetic so if you have a parent who’s a were you can be born one.  But only a beta. Alpha’s are the pack leaders. They hold the power of their pack. And they’re the only ones who can turn born humans to weres.  The bigger the pack, the more power the alpha has. So alphas have incentive to try to collect betas, and if they don’t inherit them, they turn them.  That’s how Scott got turned. An alpha wanted a pack.”

 

He purposely doesn’t mention names.  The pack in this world haven’t learned to be open and he’s not gonna give Isaac a guilt complex just to prove a point.

 

“But alphas,” he continues, unable not to grin at the delight on Scott’s face, “aren’t born that way. They’re made.”

 

“How?” Scott asks, breathlessly.  Stiles takes note of the fact Allison is listening with narrowed eyes, but he’s not telling this story for her.

 

“Sometimes in a family, the old alpha dies, and the power passes to the next in line, usually the oldest child.  But usually,” he states bluntly, “They murder other alphas. And take their pack.”

 

“Calm down, chill out,” he rushes to head off the horrified look on Scott’s face.  “Scott was just as upset about that as you are. Trust me, Scott never wants to hurt a fly if he can help it.”  Which was kind of part of the problem, as far as Stiles was concerned. “But he also didn’t want to join the alpha who turned him.”

 

“Why?”

 

“Um...because he was a murderous dick who wanted Scott to kill all of us?  Scott kind of wasn’t into that. So he just...started his own pack. As a beta.  Me and Allison and Lydia at first. Then Jackson.”

 

Allison shows an actual reaction for the first time.  “ _ Lydia _ ?”

 

“Oh yeah, she’s a banshee.  Did I not mention that? Anyway, word got out and all kinds of people kept trying to convince him to take out an alpha to get that actual power.  But he kept saying no. And trust me, there were  _ plenty _ of dick alphas around nobody would have cried about.  Like Derek. But he wouldn’t. And then a bunch of mystical shit happened and he like...he  _ ascended _ .  All on his own.  Through sheer force of will.  Which is something that apparently happens only once every hundred years or more?  There are myths about that shit in the were community. The true alpha. Power given, not stolen.  Blah blah blah it was very magical and moving and now he and the Argents are the protectors of Beacon Hills.  The end.”

 

“Wow,” Scott says breathlessly, and drops back down into his chair.  “I’ve been slacking, Allison.”

 

“That’s what I said,” Other Isaac mutters to himself and Allison shoots Stiles a dirty look.

 

“You said there were three.  Power levels. What’s the third?”  Trust an Argent to remember those details.

 

Stiles very carefully doesn’t look at Isaac.  “There are Omegas. Werewolves without packs. Driven out, usually.  Left defenseless and vulnerable.”

 

Chris doesn’t move from his position by the door, but Stiles sees his eyes narrow and his nostrils flare.  Chris’ eyes drift to Isaac and then continue on, like he’d never purposely been looking at him at all, and Stiles knows he’s figured it out.

 

“That sucks,” Scott says. 

 

“Yeah, but our Scott has kind of made it his thing to bring them into his pack.  At least in the last couple of years. So feel good by association, dude.”

 


End file.
